


Because You Left, Part One

by lookninjas



Series: Because You Left [1]
Category: Glee, Lost
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 129,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, Benjamin Linus killed several of his own people and left the Island on a stolen submarine, with a child that wasn't really his. He and his son have been running ever since, from one end of the United States to the other. But no one can run forever, not even them. For better or for worse, their road ends here: Lima, Ohio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Man Out of Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Glee/LOST AU crossover. Given the number of non-LOST characters in the story, it shouldn't be totally inaccessible to those who weren't LOST fanatics. And for those who are LOST fanatics -- this fic is massively, massively AU. Massive. Massive AU. So while some things will carry over from the show, others will not, and lots of things will probably be warped all out of recognition.
> 
> In short: This is Bat Country.
> 
> This fic is a work in progress. Parts One and Two are complete, Part Three is being written, and Part Four has been planned and outlined. I've been lucky enough to have beta help from several very awesome people as writing has progressed: rena_librarian, specialj67 and seealexwrite (who edited 1.17, and believe me it needed the both of them), the-rainbow-jen, and the indispensable seldnei.
> 
> It is perhaps worth noting that the fic actually went on hiatus for about a year between Part One and Part Two. I don't think my writing style changed that much in that time, but there may be some small stylistic differences (although, as the fic gradually shifts away from Lima, those were bound to happen anyway.)

He pokes at a clump of feta hidden amongst the leaves of his salad, and he thinks of a _mass_.

Technically, he supposes, it's a tumor. But the doctor hadn't seemed willing to use that particular word. He thinks he knows why -- after all, _tumor_ implies cancer, and as the doctor had been very, very careful to point out, the _mass_ may not be cancerous at all. It could be benign. It could be nothing. It's too soon to tell. Instead, there's just a _mass_ , some undefined danger wrapped around his spine, something to be prodded and tested until they know more, until they can confirm the nature of the enemy, verify the level of threat and act accordingly.

He understands that. Of course he does. He's an old hand at observation by now, at waiting patiently until the moment is right, until he _knows_ , before he makes his move. Sometimes he fights, sometimes he flees, but he always waits and watches first. He always makes sure.

It's a little surprising to him, then, how much he hates the idea of doing that this time. How desperate he is to just get the damn thing cut out so he can focus on the real threats that are out there, to get rid of the distraction and concentrate on what's important. He just doesn't have time for a _mass_.

He spears the feta on the tines of his fork, and it's halfway to his mouth before he realizes that he's too nauseous to eat.

"Well hey there, buddy!" a voice calls from above him, and he blinks up, eyes focusing on a blonde in a bright red tracksuit. He knows who she is. Of course he knows who she is. But until this moment, he'd been reasonably confident that she didn't even know he existed. Invisibility is a skill he's acquired through long years of practice; he's gotten good at flying under the radar, staying out of sight. And he's been particularly careful with Sue Sylvester.

Apparently, he hasn't been careful enough. More's the pity, really.

"Mind if I join you?" she asks, and she's already sitting down, confident of her welcome. Of course, no one says no to Sue Sylvester. It's never wise to upset a petty dictator, even if her dictatorship is a bit pettier than most. Try as he may, Ben has yet to figure out just how Coach Sylvester has become so influential at McKinley High. Yes, her cheerleading squad has been remarkably successful. Moreso than any other team at the school, in fact. But they also cost an enormous amount of money, and Sue herself is persistently disruptive -- constantly making new demands, antagonizing the other teachers, even bullying the students. He can't figure out why she hasn't been let go.

But she hasn't. In fact, she nearly always gets her way. Which means that he'll have to be cautious. But not too cautious; Sue's not used to working for things. If he's a little abrasive, it might convince her that he's more trouble than he's worth.

"Of course not," he says, and manages to smile at her. Her tray is covered with bright foil packets of Gu; she squeezes them out, one-by-one, into a bowl. And he thought the feta was nauseating. "Out of curiosity, do you actually know who I am, or is this another of your oddly compelling Machiavellian schemes? I'm not complaining either way; just... curious."

She tilts her head to the side, gives him the kind of reassuring smile that she frequently displays on the 10 o'clock news, the kind of smile he finds peculiarly disturbing. Machiavellian schemes it is, then. "Of course I know who you are, Henry. We've been working together for years now."

He watches her flatten out the last tube of sugar jelly, rolling it up like toothpaste to extract every last bit, then set the empty packet aside. She lifts a spoon. She has filled a bowl full of energy gels, and now she's eating them with a spoon. He has seen some horrifying things in his time, and this probably isn't the worst. It's just that, right now, it's the worst thing he can think of. "No, we haven't," he points out. "As a matter of fact, I haven't even been here... what, ten months? At the most? And my name is Ben. Ben Anderson."

"Fascinating." It's almost impressive, how little she cares. She scoops up another spoonful of Gu, swallowing it down with gusto. "But I guess that does sound about right. Ten months. So that would mean you came to us... What, two months after you pulled your son from that school in Fort Wayne and sent him to private school here in Ohio? What’s it called... It’s on the tip of my tongue..." She taps the edge of the bowl with her spoon. "Dalton Academy! That's it. Your son attends Dalton Academy. In Westerville."

For the first time since he saw the X-rays, the chill running down Ben's spine has nothing to do with the _mass_. He sets his fork down, dabs at his mouth carefully with a paper napkin, then lets his hands fall into his lap. The baton is, as always, tucked neatly into his front pocket; then, too, there is the gun in the ankle holster. Not that he's planning on assaulting the unofficial dictator of McKinley in the middle of the faculty lounge; that would hardly help him to continue to pass unnoticed here. But, in the end, he'll do what he's always done; he'll do what he has to to protect Blaine.

So he rests his right hand back on the table, leaves his left out of sight. Just in case. "Sue," he says, keeping his voice level. "I can call you Sue, right?"

She smiles at him. "Well, sure you can, Benry. Since we're such old friends and all."

Ben's fingers flex against his thigh. Part of him just wants to get this over with already, because it's not like this started five minutes ago, or even ten months ago. He's been braced for attack since the moment he and his son fled the Island. Longer than that, even. Since the first time he held his son in his arms. But it's not going to stop; it's never going to stop, and he can't make it stop. So there's no need to be hasty. "Sue," he says again. "What do you want?"

She leans in, her smile almost but not quite fading away entirely. "You're direct," she says. "I like that in a minion. Well, sometimes. Well, actually, I can't stand it. But since you asked so nicely, Denny, let me drop some knowledge on you. Your son's little Dalton Academy glee club, the Garblers or the Burblers or whatever they're called --"

"I believe you'll find that they're called the Warblers, Sue --"

"-- is being infiltrated by a _spy_."

She pauses, probably for effect; Ben takes that moment to clamp down on his panic. He has no reason to suspect that she knows who he is or where he comes from (where his _son_ comes from); he doesn't want to give her any information she doesn't already have. Still, it's hard for him to stop his heart from beating a little bit faster.

"I know what you're thinking," Sue says, and Ben doesn't so much as allow himself to raise an eyebrow. "How could Will Schuester ever sink so low? Sure, he's desperate for some kind of validation after his sham marriage finally disintegrated and that wide-eyed marsupial he's bizarrely obsessed with turned him down in favor of a little quality time with the world's furriest dentist, but --"

"Wait," Ben says, and this time, his eyebrow goes up. "Wait one moment. You're accusing the Spanish teacher of spying on my --"

"He's not just a Spanish teacher," Sue says, her face deadly serious. "Or have you forgotten? William Schuester is also in charge of the _glee club_."

Ben is almost impressed by the amount of ominous intent Coach Sylvester manages to pour into those two words. Or he would be, if he weren't kicking himself for even considering the idea that a high school cheerleading coach could actually pose a threat to his son. "Glee club," he says, quietly.

"Oh yes," Sue says. Apparently, she hasn't realized yet that she's lost him. "After New Directions' abject failure at Regionals last year, Schuester is out for blood. He will stop at _nothing_ to win. Even as we speak, one of his little glee club failures -- who shall remain nameless for the time being -- is stalking the halls of Dalton Academy, learning the Garglers' secrets, perhaps even stealing their _set list_ \--"

"Yes, thank you, Sue," Ben says, a little more loudly than he needs to. This is useless, the obsessive ramblings of a woman who is clearly unstable. He doesn't have time for this; he still has a stack of quizzes left to be graded before tomorrow afternoon. And now with this _mass_ , and all the doctors he'll have to visit, and the tests... he's far enough behind as it is. He pushes his chair back and stands up, ignoring the twinge in his back as he does so. "I'll be sure to inform Blaine that the Warblers' Sacred Set List has been leaked and that they'll need to come up with a new one. Assuming that they've come up with one at all, which I rather doubt, since Sectionals is still more than a month away. But if they have, rest assured that it will be immediately scrapped, and they'll go without sleep until they come up with a new one. I give you my word." He bends as best he can to gather up his trash, and then turns away without waiting for a reply.

Sue's voice stops him halfway to the garbage can. "Question for you, Benedict," she says. Ben thinks briefly about ignoring her, but for some reason, he turns and looks back. She's standing up, hands folded behind her back. "Why did you pull your son out of that school? Back in Fort Wayne, I mean. It wasn't like you were planning on doing it -- you didn't even start looking for work in Ohio until _after_ Blaine had been accepted to Dalton. So why did you put him there in the first place?"

Ben takes a deep breath; there's no harm in the truth. Not this truth, anyway. "My son is gay," he says, matter-of-factly. "When he chose to inform his classmates in Fort Wayne of this, it became... It became impossible for him to stay."

"He was bullied," Sue says, taking a few steps closer.

"Yes," Ben says, and doesn't elaborate.

Sue keeps walking until she's looming over him and he has to tilt his head back a little to meet her eyes. "Which is why you sent him to Dalton, which has a zero-tolerance bullying policy."

"That's right."

"So he could be safe."

Ben keeps his eyes on hers, doesn't let his hand so much as twitch towards the baton. She's going somewhere with this; he knows that much. But he suspects that the destination will be something of a surprise to him. "Exactly."

Sue just nods. "Well," she says, and turns away. "I guess maybe it's for the best that Schuester sent Kurt Hummel to spy on the Warblers. Dalton might be just the sort of thing he's looking for."

"Excuse me?" Ben asks.

Sue doesn't even look at him; she slides back into her chair and picks up her spoon. "Kurt could use something like that," she muses, as a blob of energy gel falls off the spoon and lands back in the bowl. "Someplace where he could be safe."

Ben's grip on the plastic container in his hands tightens just a little bit. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Sue says, licking her spoon. She still hasn't looked at him, and Ben realizes that he's been dismissed. "Have a good day, Henry."

He's tempted, just for a moment, to press the issue. But this is neither the time nor the place, and anyway, it's none of his concern. He has more important things to deal with right now. So he turns; he drops the half-finished salad into the garbage on his way out the door and heads back to the safety of his office, trying not to pay too much attention to the dull ache at the base of his spine that sharpens with every step.

A _mass_.

He can't tell his son.

 

*

 

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did," Kurt says, and then immediately kicks himself for it, because Blaine has been nothing but kind to him. So kind, in fact, that it's a little bit surreal. Kurt's not used to this sort of persistent gentleness; he doesn't know how to handle it. Especially not with the day (the week, the month, the _year_ he's been having). "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have -- I just --"

Blaine laughs, his shoulder bumping up against Kurt's as they push through Dalton's double doors, together. Honestly, Kurt's half tempted to sink his fingernails into the doorframe and refuse to be dragged away; he knows he'd miss McKinley within the week if he were to do so, but right now, he kind of thinks he'd get over it. "It's fine," Blaine says. "You're... It's hard right now. Believe me, I've been there. And I was..." He shakes his head. "I was a lot meaner than you."

Kurt looks at Blaine for a few seconds, at this boy he doesn't know, this boy who was so willing to take his hand and make him smile and listen to him, and says "No, you weren't."

"Trust me," Blaine says, wrinkling up his nose, still smiling a little bit. He's already unfairly adorable; the face just makes it harder for Kurt to look at him and not fall in love. Which would be stupid; it's probably just gratitude anyway and is he really the kind of boy to fall for the first gay guy he meets? (Yes. Yes he is.) "There's... I put my dad through a lot, back then. All he wanted to do was help me, and I just..."

Kurt comes to a halt on the steps, because oh God. Blaine's going to talk about his dad, and then he's going to talk about Kurt's dad and he's going to ask Kurt to -- "I can't, Blaine," he blurts out, and God, why can't he control his mouth right now? "I just... I mean, he just got out of the hospital, and he's barely even strong enough to work, and if he _knew_... He's already got so much stress because of me, and I can't make that worse; I just can't, not when it could --"

And he's crying again, and God, he feels like such an idiot, but Blaine just rests a hand on his shoulder and says "Hey," so quiet and so gentle and so _kind_ , and Kurt just wants to lose it, but he pushes the tears back with an effort, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Hey, it's okay," Blaine tells him, guiding him over to the side so they can sit on the steps together, out of anyone else's way. "I just... What's wrong? What did I say?"

"It's my dad," Kurt says, his voice coming out huskier, more broken, than he wants it to. "He... He had a heart attack. A few weeks ago. And he's... he's better now, but I don't know what this would do to him, finding out about Karofsky and everything. It's been so stressful already, with me coming out, and I just... I can't lose him, Blaine. He's all I have."

Blaine nods, rubbing his hand in slow circles on Kurt's back. "Your mom," he says, quietly. "She..."

Kurt sniffles. "Cancer," he says. "I was eight." There's a moment when he thinks about asking Blaine how he knew, and then he realizes that he kind of doesn't need to. Blaine's already told him, just not in so many words. "How about you?"

"There was an accident," Blaine says. "My dad doesn't like to talk about it much. I was a lot younger than you, though. Just a baby, so I never really..." He laughs, but it's awkward-sounding. "I feel like it's a horrible thing to say, but it's like... I can't miss her, because I never knew her. You know?"

"Not really," Kurt admits.

Blaine sighs and shuffles a little closer. "But my point is, Kurt, that... I mean, my dad's my whole world, too. He means everything to me. And I don't... I _can't_ ask you to talk to your dad about this, because under the circumstances? I probably wouldn't either." His hand finally slips away from Kurt's back, and Kurt has about a second and a half in which to miss it before Blaine reaches out again with that same hand, twining his fingers with Kurt's. "But maybe... Maybe if you can't talk to your dad... Maybe you could talk to mine?"

Kurt blinks at him, for a second. Because there's generosity, and then there's _this_ , which just seems a little over the line in a way that Kurt can't quite identify. "I don't... I don't quite understand."

"Well..." Blaine's other hand falls atop Kurt's, and Kurt's still not sure how to feel about that, but it's hard to deny anyone with Blaine's wide, sincere eyes. "You go to McKinley, right? That's where my dad works, Kurt. He's a teacher. He could help you. If you had to go to the principal, or the school board, or --" Kurt's stomach churns at the thought, and he starts to pull away. Blaine tugs him back in. "Or he could not do either of those things, if you're not ready. He could just be someone... someone who would look out for you in the hallway. Someone who... Someone who you could talk to. If you needed to talk."

"Can't I just --" Kurt has to stop himself before he can finish the sentence with "talk to you," because that's probably too creepy, not to mention presumptuous.

Anyway, it turns out he doesn't need to, because Blaine's already gotten the hint. "You can always talk to me, Kurt," he says, his hands pressing down gently on Kurt's. "That's why I gave you my number. You can talk to me whenever you need to. But I can't..." He sighs. "Listening is all I can do, Kurt. My dad can do so much more than that. If you'll let him. Will you let him?"

"I..."

Blaine shifts even further into Kurt's space, until their knees are pressed together. "Okay," he says. "Will you at least _think_ about letting him help you? At least a little?"

Kurt stares down at their joined hands, at Blaine's knee knocking against his, at the toes of their shoes touching, and he thinks that he'd agree to anything, really, if he could just stay like this with Blaine a little bit longer. "Okay," he says, faintly, and when he manages to look up, he's rewarded by Blaine's broad, beaming smile.

"Okay," Blaine says again, his hands still warm around Kurt's. "Okay. So his name's Ben -- I mean, it's Mr. Anderson, but there's like five Mr. Andersons at your school, so just remember that you're looking for _Ben_ Anderson, and... Here, hang on, I'll write it down." He pulls away to fumble through his bag and find a pen and some paper, and Kurt briefly regrets that he said yes so easily. But he still manages to smile when Blaine looks at him again.

 

*

 

The problem is, Blaine's not actually sure that his dad _can_ help Kurt. Assuming that Kurt ever asks him to, which he might not, but if he _does_ it'll be serious, and if his dad won't help, then...

It's not that his father's a bad guy. It's not that he doesn't _care_. He acts like he doesn't, most of the time, like the people around him are mostly just distractions -- sometimes amusing, sometimes banal. Anyone who isn't a distraction is either a threat or... Or they're Blaine himself, really. Because Blaine knows his dad cares about him with an intensity that's almost scary sometimes (like in Fort Wayne, that time when Blaine was bending down to get something from his locker and got shoved into the door, and it left that cut on his forehead, the one in the shape of a corner, and it swelled and Blaine started to get sick and dizzy like he was concussed, and the nurse called his dad to get him and the look on his face when he _saw_ it, the cut and the swelling and...) But the point is that Blaine's dad _can_ care -- he cares a lot, actually, and Blaine knows that it's not just him; he knows that there's more. His dad just hides it really well.

And Blaine knows why; of course he does. He knows that they're only truly safe around each other, that everything else, everyone else, is at least a little bit suspect. He knows that they can't draw too much attention to themselves, that they can't stand out too much. But the thing is, he still hasn't figured out what too much is. He thought that coming out would be _too much_ , except it wasn't (except then it kind of _was_ , but in a different way entirely, and although what happened in Fort Wayne was almost enough to make Blaine crawl right back into the closet again, he knows his dad would hate it, so he didn't and he won't). But then he thought it'd be okay for him and his dad to join PFLAG, and his dad said that they couldn't, that it was too risky. He thought he'd never be able to join the Warblers and never _ever_ get to have a solo, but his dad insisted that he at least try, and he's never once complained that Blaine is making a target of himself. But then Blaine thought his dad should take the job at OSU, because it was better than McKinley, and his dad said that was out of the question, although he never said why.

He knows that the boundaries are somewhere in the middle, somewhere between. But he can't figure out what they are, exactly. So he can't figure out if his dad will help Kurt or not.

(if he asks. he may never ask.)

(he will. of course he will. someday.)

So there are all these questions, and they just sort of seethe around inside him while he helps his dad make dinner, and then after they sit down to eat (his dad eats; Blaine mostly just pushes his ziti around the plate like they'll maybe form an answer somehow, nudges them into a crude octagon and then realizes what that looks like and messes it up again because he should have forgotten about those by now). And he knows he has to say something; for all he knows, something awful could happen to Kurt tomorrow, and then what will he do? But he can't figure out what to say, or how to say it. And he knows that none of this is his dad's fault, not really. But sometimes he just wishes...

(he wishes they'd never left.)

(he wishes they hadn't had to leave because the Island never existed in the first place.)

He wishes things were different.

"You're quiet tonight," his dad says, looking up from his plate. Blaine immediately drops his gaze back down to his own food. "Bad day at school?"

The octagon is still there. "It was fine," Blaine mutters, and stabs the top bar of the octagon. He can't quite make himself lift it off the plate.

"How's the bird situation?" Blaine doesn't have to look up to know that his dad is watching him, studying him, trying to figure things out. He doesn't have to look up to know that his dad is worried. "I hope your practice wasn't disrupted today. What with Sectionals coming up, and everything."

"It was fine," Blaine says again, because it was. Because there aren't any birds around Dalton anymore (save Pavarotti, of course, and even he's listless these days). After weeks of them constantly battering against the windows, hurling themselves at the glass and then falling, dead, to the pavement, they've all just vanished. Maybe they migrated. Maybe whatever drew them to Dalton has now shoved them back away. He doesn't know, and it's too much like...

(the Island)

Too much like a bad horror movie for him to let himself care about it anymore.

His father pauses for a little bit, gathering himself. He's about to push; Blaine knows how his father operates by now, knows how he does what he does. It doesn't mean he _understands_ , but he can see the process, a little. "I've heard that your school is competing against McKinley this year," his father says, and Blaine sucks in a breath.

He knows what his father is doing. That doesn't make it any less effective.

"I hope you're not worried that I'll feel compelled to support my school over my son. Not that the New Directions are bad, of course, but. You come first."

_("one of these days, ben, you're going to have to choose. the Island, or your son?")_

(his father's voice, quiet and sure. "maybe i've already chosen.")

("then so be it.")

"Dad," Blaine says, and finally looks up at his father, still watching him, calm as anything. It's just the way his hand grips the fork that gives him away, the way his left hand is under the table, like it always is when he's anxious. Sometimes, Blaine even wonders if his father knows that he’s doing it anymore. "Actually, yeah. Let's talk about McKinley. About the _bullying_ at McKinley."

His dad just nods, still seemingly serene. "About Kurt Hummel's bullying at McKinley, you mean."

Blaine's jaw drops, because "Wait. How did you --"

"I believe I've told you about McKinley's cheerleading coach," his father says, laying his fork down neatly at the side of his plate, folding his hands together at the edge of the table.

"The crazy one," Blaine says, immediately, because he's heard his dad's stories and yeah, she sounds pretty crazy. But then he wonders if he should have said that, because... well.

His dad shakes his head slightly, but he's smiling. "That may not have been the most tactful way of putting it," he says, his voice mild. "But yes, Blaine. The crazy one. She's... Very interested in getting rid of McKinley's glee club; I believe she was hoping that I would be so angered at Kurt's spying that I'd be willing to help. When that failed, she hinted that perhaps Dalton would be good for Kurt, the same way it was good for you. I drew the obvious conclusions."

Blaine bites at his lower lip, a little nervous. "She knows about me?" he asks, his voice coming out more frightened than he wants it to.

His dad catches that at once -- of course he does, he's Blaine's _dad_. "Nothing she shouldn't know," he says, reaching out to lay his hand over Blaine's wrist. Blaine finally drops his fork, grasping instead at his father's hand. His father squeezes back, steady and comforting. "She knows about Fort Wayne, what happened there. That's all, Blaine. I promise you. You're safe. I'll keep you safe."

"I know," Blaine says, but he still sounds unsure, and his father grips his hand a little tighter.

"Anyway," his father says. "I'm sure Coach Sylvester brought you up in order to gain my attention, and while I hate to be predictable... Well." He ducks his head, pushes his glasses up with his free hand. "Kurt's not in any of my classes, so I did a little research into his background. Nothing you'd frown upon," he adds, when Blaine opens his mouth to complain. "Nothing any other teacher wouldn't have access to. And I couldn't help but notice that Kurt's made no official complaints about being bullied."

It's not what Blaine was expecting, and he can't help but try to pull back in shock, although his father's grip doesn't let him get very far. "That doesn't _mean_ anything," he protests, still trying to pull away. "It doesn't --"

"That doesn't mean he's not being bullied," his father replies, still so calm that it's almost infuriating to witness. "But it means something, Blaine. It always means something."

And that alone is enough to get Blaine slumping back into submission. Because he knows what his dad is getting at, now. Because Blaine never complained either; he was afraid to. Afraid of getting too much attention, afraid of getting them noticed, afraid of having to run. Again. "It's his dad," he admits, dropping his eyes down to his plate. "Because he had a heart attack a few weeks ago, and Kurt's worried that if it gets back to him, if he finds out, then the stress would -- That it would hurt him."

His dad runs his thumb absently over Blaine's knuckles. "That sounds like something you would do," he says, quietly.

"It is." Blaine looks up at his father; his father looks back at him, head tilted. Waiting him out. "I asked him if he would at least go to you. To talk. And he said he'd think about it, but..."

"But it might be too late by the time he makes his mind up," his dad finishes, and Blaine nods. Because it almost was, for him. Because if it hadn't been for his dad...

"You don't have to do anything," he stresses. "Just keep an eye on him for now. Just so we can know... Before it goes too far, I mean, or..."

"Blaine," his father says, and gives him the smallest of smiles. It shouldn't be reassuring, a smile like that. But it almost is anyway. "I'll watch over him for you. And if I feel that the situation is... escalating, I’ll step in. Trust me?"

"I do," Blaine says, and squeezes his father's hand. "I do, Dad."

His father smiles again, less scary this time. "I know," he says, and lets his hand slip away. "You should finish that before it gets cold."

Then his dad goes back to eating, and this time, Blaine does too. It's easier now; he's not as worried anymore.

His dad’s got an eye on the situation, and if there’s anyone he trusts to do the right thing, it’s his dad.


	2. The Catalyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine has always trusted his father to take care of things, and Ben always has. If that means he has to look after Kurt Hummel for the time being, then that should be easy enough.

"Extra credit!" Ben calls out, shouting to be heard over the ringing of the bell, and is pleased to see that the vast majority of his students stop what they're doing and return their attention to him. Not all of them (he usually doesn't have them that cowed until Christmas at least), but still, the vast majority. Which is more than his colleagues can say. "Next Wednesday, UNOH is hosting a symposium on mathematical concepts in popular culture -- where the media gets it right, and where they get it horribly wrong. I will not be speaking, but I will be in attendance. For those of you who did poorly on last week's test -- and that's most of you -- I suggest you show up as well. Every student who checks in with me, either before or after the lecture, will be given five additional points towards their overall grade. For some of you, that could be the difference between passing and failing. For others... Well. Every little bit helps. Either way, I'm expecting to see a good number of you there. So don't disappoint me." 

He looks around the room, at the students looking back at him. Some are already gone, of course, but the vast majority are still where they were when he started speaking. It's a good start. Room for improvement, but still. "Dismissed," he adds, almost as an afterthought, and the students stream towards the exit, chattering with sudden enthusiasm. For some reason, they seem to part as they reach the actual door, splitting off to the right or to the left but not going straight through; he can't figure out why until the cluster around the door has dispersed and he can see someone coming in, long blonde hair curling around her shoulders, eyes warmed by her smile.

He smiles back. "Hello, Juliet."

"You never came back," she says, and Ben frowns, puzzled, watching her pick her way into the room, weaving between the desks. "After our... consultation. That back pain you were having? I suggested you get a course of X-rays, thinking that, once you'd gotten them, you'd come back and tell me how it went. But you never came back."

And just like that, Ben is no longer happy to see Juliet. At all. "I'm sorry," he says, bending down to gather up his notes and stuff them back into his briefcase, careful not to wince when the movement causes a twinge of pain. It occurs to him that, were this any of his other coworkers, he could look her in the face. He could brazen it out. But he can't, with Juliet. He's not sure why. "It's been a busy week; I suppose it must have slipped my mind. You know how it is."

"Sure," Juliet says, quietly. Then, "You know, the fact that you're not looking at me right now? Is a little worrying."

Ben manages to look at her for just a moment, quickly, before turning away again to reach for his coat. It's another lapse, a ridiculous one, and he's already berating himself for it as he tugs his jacket on. He is smarter than this. He knows better. "It's nothing," he says, too fast. "It's... There's more tests to run, that's all. So I can't tell you what's going on, because at the moment, I don't know myself. But I'm sure it'll be fine."

"No." When Ben glances up again, Juliet is unusually serious, her mouth set into a thin line. "You're not sure. You're scared."

"I'm not scared," Ben says, and it's better, but his voice is too quiet and he knows it. 

Juliet knows it too. Of course she does. "Why are you scared, Ben?"

Ben turns away, rests his hands on the back of his chair (gripping too hard, his knuckles white with the strain), and feels himself cracking, just a little, but just enough. "There's a mass," he says, and it's the first time he's admitted it aloud. He had thought there would be some kind of relief to it. Instead, it just feels worse. "A large one, wrapped around my L4 vertebra. I'm going in for blood work next week, probably a needle biopsy as well, to see what we're... what we're looking at."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Juliet coming closer, sliding in next to him to lean against the corner of his desk. Her eyes are soft; she looks almost as though she wants to reach out, and for just a moment, Ben thinks he would let her. He would honestly let her. "So there's a tumor."

Ben shakes his head, gripping a little harder at the chair. "I don't have cancer, Juliet," he says. "I have a _mass_."

"Also known as a tumor," Juliet says, with a small, quiet smile; she slides a little closer. "It could be benign, Ben. Several common spinal tumors are."

He swallows hard. "I know."

She's right in front of him now; he can't avoid looking at her. There's something so steady about her eyes, something serious and kind. It reminds him of _her_. "Then what are you so afraid of?" she asks softly.

"Blaine." The name comes out on a breath of air, just barely audible; Ben thinks of expanding, of explaining, but he doesn't have the words. All he can think of is Kurt Hummel, hiding from his father for fear that the truth will hurt him. All he can think of is how Blaine did the same thing before. How he'd do it again.

Juliet sighs. "Have you told him? About the mass?"

The very idea is like a bucket of cold water, a shock to Ben's system. "No," he says, firmly, hoisting his bag up over his shoulder and straightening firmly. It's not difficult to look Juliet in the eye this time, and his voice is level now, controlled. Mostly. "No, and I'm not planning on it. Not until I know more."

Juliet frowns, her eyes worried. "Ben," she says, quietly. "You have to tell him."

"If I told him now, he'd just... worry. I see no reason to do that to him, not when he's got so much --"

"And you think it would be better to hide this from him until you're _sure_?" She leans in, arms folded, crowding him back against the desk. "Rather than telling him now, giving him time to get used to it, you'll wait until you _know_ it's cancer before you --"

"It's not cancer, Juliet," Ben insists, and it's harder to meet her eyes than it was to meet Sue's, but he manages. 

"You don't know that," she replies, and he can feel himself deflating. Because once upon a time, she would have been wrong. Once upon a time, he _couldn't_ have cancer. But that time is gone now.

"Juliet," he says, and her arms unfold. She leans in, a little closer, and for a moment he just wants so badly. "I will tell him. I just... I just need a little time to figure out how."

She raises an eyebrow. "What are you so afraid of, Ben?" she asks, one last time.

"Juliet, I..." Ben takes a deep breath. "I'm all he has," he says, and it's terrifying how true that is. He forgets sometimes that it's mutual, that it's the two of them, but then he never seriously thought that anything could ever take him from his son. "If he thought for a second..." He shakes his head. "It would only upset him, and I'm not willing to do that. Not if there's the possibility that this could turn out to be... just a scare. A false alarm."

Juliet's face softens; she rests one hand on his shoulder, and Ben's heart beats just a little quicker. "Ben," she says. "I know you're trying to do the right thing. I do. But you can't just --" But then there's a shout from the hallway, a high-pitched _Hey!_ , and Juliet pulls back, rolling her eyes. "The joys of working in the public school system," she murmurs.

Ben just frowns, and pushes past her, trying to listen. There's a little more yelling, fading out like whoever's doing the shouting is walking away. Ben can't make the words out, but the voice is distinctive. High-pitched, but not quite feminine.

He hadn't been lying when he told Blaine he'd only done the barest minimum of research on Kurt Hummel -- a quick look through his disciplinary record, a skim of the notes from the guidance counselor, and, of course, a glance or two at the school's yearbook. Honestly, he hadn't had to do much more than look at the boy's photo to realize that he already knew a great deal about him. Kurt Hummel stood out -- he had a distinctive way of dressing, of carrying himself, of speaking. 

And a very, very distinctive voice.

_I'll watch over him for you. Trust me?_

And Blaine did trust him. Blaine always trusted him to take care of things. And Ben always did.

Ben turns back to Juliet, still smiling. It's more forced now, of course, but he doesn't care about that so much. "Excuse me, won't you?"

"Where are you going?" she asks, raising her voice as he starts walking out of the classroom. "Ben!"

He ignores her, his steps quickening. He can no longer hear Kurt Hummel's distinctive, high-pitched voice. Which could mean that the problem has resolved itself, or it could mean...

"We're not finished talking about this, Ben," Juliet calls, but he keeps right on moving.

 

*

 

_"I'm not asking very much of you," he said._

_"All you have to do is get his attention," he said._

_"You'll find a way. You're smart enough," he said._

This probably isn't what he had in mind.

But as Dave stumbles down the hallway -- still wanting, god he wants, all these things he shouldn't want them but he does, he does -- he sees Mr. Anderson heading towards him. He sees him hesitate, looking at him, eyes widening behind his glasses like he knows where Dave has been and who he's been with and what he's done. And he wonders if, without meaning to, he's finally figured out how to do what his dad wants.

 

_"Do it for me, David," he said._

_"Do it for us."_

_And David had said, "I promise, Dad."_

_And David had said, "I promise."_

 

*

 

Step one is leaving the locker room. 

Which should not be difficult. He knows that Karofsky is gone now; he heard his heavy footsteps thudding against the floor as he ran out of the locker room ( _what are you so scared of_ and God wasn't that a stupid question, they always say that the more a guy insists he's straight, the more he's got to cover up but this is not how Kurt wanted to find out, he thought it would be someone else and years down the road, not now, not _him_ ). He knows that it's safer out there than it is in here, when the rest of the football team could be coming in at any minute (and what if he _tells_ them, what if he turns it around and makes it Kurt's fault and wouldn't they all believe him, wouldn't it be just the excuse they were looking for). He's barely ten steps from the door -- probably less than that, he wasn't exactly counting when he came in. All he has to do is push himself away from the lockers and take those ten steps and go.

And then he doesn't know what he's going to do; go home for sure, and then probably brush his teeth and wash his face because he can still feel those big sweaty hands rough on his cheeks and he can still taste Karofsky's breath (not dip but burgers, maybe, but not Brittany's armpit at all and oh God he's getting hysterical now he can tell) and a shower, maybe, a shower would help with this crawling feeling on his skin, but he has to leave the locker room first.

It's the first step. He doesn't know what the second step will be, but that's the first step.

He takes a deep breath (knuckles still pressed to his mouth like he's warding off another kiss, like shutting the barn door when the horses are already out), gets his feet underneath him, and starts walking.

It turns out that the door to the locker room is exactly eight steps away from where he was standing; he knows because he counts the steps, using the numbers to keep from having to think about anything else. He slips through it, closing it quietly behind him, and then almost comes out of his skin entirely when someone says "Excuse me." For a moment all Kurt can think about is getting back into the locker room, getting _away_ , but that voice wasn't Karofsky's, and the man standing in front of him isn't Karofsky either -- he's a small man, little round glasses and wide blue eyes and the kind of sweater vest that Mr. Schuester always wears, the kind that Kurt wants to burn but also finds weirdly comforting. 

Kurt sucks in a slow breath, then another one, trying to get his heart to stop pounding so hard. He can actually hear it, it's so loud. Almost loud enough to block out the man standing in front of him, asking "Are you all right?"

Kurt takes another slow breath, nods. He can feel his hand slowly falling away from its protective press against his mouth. Because he knows who this man is; he looked him up last night, after his conversation with Blaine. In the back pages of the yearbook, a picture of a small man, little round glasses and wide blue eyes and a sweater vest. Written underneath was _Benjamin Anderson, Mathematics_. "You're Mr. Anderson," he says, stupidly. "You teach Calculus."

"That's right," the man says, and stays where he is, like Kurt's a frightened animal he's trying to calm down.

"You're Blaine's dad," Kurt says, and something in Mr. Anderson's expression changes, softens.

He steps in, and Kurt doesn't shrink back but he doesn't move forward either. His brain knows he's safe, but his body's not catching up, and it's hard to make himself move, hard even to think, really. "Kurt," Mr. Anderson says, his voice quiet. "Are you all right?"

Kurt wants to say "No." He does, really. He wants to but then he thinks about what Blaine said, about Mr. Anderson taking him to the principal and what if they don't believe him? What if they think he brought it on himself? God, even Finn thought he was pushing himself on Sam, even his _Dad_ thought -- "It's nothing," he says, quickly, and drops his eyes to stare at the carpet. "It's fine. It's... it's nothing."

There's no way Mr. Anderson is going to believe him, of course, and of course he doesn't. Kurt can feel him watching, can hear his feet, soft against the carpeting, as he takes another few steps in and God, why can't he just walk away like everyone else does? Why can't he just go, and let Kurt -- "You dropped this," Mr. Anderson says, quietly, and waits until Kurt looks up before holding out his phone. 

Kurt reaches out immediately, his hands shaking, and somewhere along the line someone brushes a thumb up against the screen; it lights up, and there's that message again.

_Courage._

And just like that, Kurt's eyes are welling up with tears; he has to press his lips together hard and breath deeply to force back a sob.

"Come on," Mr. Anderson says, gently; his hand settles on Kurt's shoulder. And it's funny, because he's not a very big guy, but there's a solidity to that touch, something firm in the way he guides Kurt down the hallway. It reminds Kurt a little of Blaine, the way he was so quick to reach out, his hands so sure; it also reminds him a little of his dad. Either way, it's nothing he can fight. 

And even if he could, he's too tired to try. For the moment, it's easier to just let himself be swept along.

 

*

"You'll want to let that steep a bit," Ben says, setting the mug down on the desk in front of Kurt, before turning back to the microwave to get his own tea. "There's honey, if you want it."

"No, thank you." Kurt's voice is still husky from suppressed tears, but when his hands wrap around the mug, they're steady. "I have to say I'm impressed. Mr. Schuester just has paper cups. And a water cooler."

Ben shrugs and takes a seat next to Kurt, wincing a little when the chair puts pressure on his back. It's worse than usual today, or at least it seems that way. More likely, it's just that he's paying more attention now that he knows that some foreign _mass_ is wrapped around his spine. "Well," he says. "I suppose that the administration decided that, since I was giving up a teaching position at a nationally known university to come here, the least they could do to compensate me was to let me have a microwave in my office. Assuming I would provide the microwave, of course. And the mugs. And... well, everything. But at least they haven't made me get rid of it yet. Which I thought was kind of them."

Kurt doesn't smile at that; his attention is caught by the pictures on the desk. He picks one up, studies it for a few moments. It's Blaine, of course. All of them are. "I didn't know you were a college professor," he says, his voice soft. "Did you... Why did you come here? Was it because of Blaine?"

"I could have stayed in Indiana," Ben admits, watching as Kurt sets the picture down, reaches for another. "Dalton has a boarding option; I didn't actually have to move. But it's been just the two of us, just Blaine and myself, for so long that I... Well. I wasn't ready for my nest to be empty quite so soon."

"Can I ask," Kurt says, quietly, not looking up. "Blaine's mother. What... What happened?"

Ben sighs and turns away. "She died," he says, and doesn't think for one second about going into the circumstances. The goal here is to get Kurt to trust him, and that most definitely would not help. "When Blaine was a baby. It was... unexpected. So I raised Blaine by myself." 

"Was it hard?" Kurt's voice is still quiet, but he sounds less fragile than before; if anything, Ben would guess that Kurt is the worried one now, the one trying to be gentle. It's impressive, how quickly he changes roles.

"Sometimes," Ben admits. "There have been some... unexpected difficulties. But I wouldn't change it." He watches Kurt toy idly with the string on his tea bag for a few moments, wrapping it around his finger like he's trying not to forget something, then says, "Kurt." And although Ben has taken great pains to be careful not to change the tone of his voice, not to sound sharp or angry, Kurt still looks up quickly, his whole body going tense. "Kurt," Ben says again, just as gentle. "I'm not going to ask you what happened. I won't make you go to the principal; I won't even suggest that you talk to your father." At that, Kurt drops his head again, stares at the string wound around his finger. "When you're ready to talk about it, you'll talk about it. Until then, there is nothing that I can do to make you. But I hope you know that there is someone who's willing to listen. When you're ready, of course."

The string is wound so tight that the tip of Kurt's finger is turning purple. Ben waits for Kurt to let it unravel. It takes a moment, but he does, unwinding it with a heavy sigh. "It's not..." Kurt looks up at the ceiling, tips his head back, like he's hoping that gravity will force away the tears that are still threatening. "It's not what you think," he says, finally. "It's... it's different."

Ben raises his eyebrow. "You know, you're making it very difficult for me not to ask any questions right now. What with the being intentionally vague, and everything."

Kurt lets out a choked little half-laugh, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "Sorry. I'm used to cultivating an air of mystery," he says, and Ben surprises himself by laughing. Kurt Hummel is, apparently, clever. Although not clever enough to keep himself out of trouble. "It's just..." He shakes his head. "It's fine. I can... I can handle this."

"Hmm." Ben pushes himself up out of his chair, crosses over to his small collection of dishes, and pulls out a saucer. He shouldn't have sat down; he's stiffer than ever now. It's an effort to move normally, although he flatters himself that, as he moves back to the desk and holds the saucer out to Kurt, it's actually working. "Here, I think that tea's steeped enough, don't you?"

"Thank you," Kurt murmurs, carefully lifting the dripping tea bag from its mug and transferring it to the saucer without so much as a drop landing on Ben's desk. 

Ben settles back down, takes his own tea bag out and sets it on the saucer. "Also, Kurt, and I hate to sound like I'm doubting you because I don't, believe me, but I can't help but think that I've heard that one before. The 'I can handle it' thing, I mean."

Kurt sips at his tea; he looks a little surprised, but not very. "From Blaine," he says. "You've heard it from Blaine."

"Oh yes," Ben says, and can't disguise some of the bitterness that lingers. It's not that he blames Blaine; he doesn't. He could never. But that doesn't mean he doesn't still wish they'd done it differently. "Honestly, some of that's my fault; we moved so much when he was younger that I think he just didn't want to take the chance that it would happen again. Which, to be fair, it did. But to my way of thinking, there are worse things."

 _Blaine coming downstairs in the morning, pale and shaky, insisting that he would go to school even though Ben had just heard him throwing up upstairs. Blaine flinching away from Ben's touch on his shoulders, flinching away from Ben's hand splayed against his back. Blaine slumped defeated in the principal's office, as that awful woman lectured him about all the classes he'd been skipping and Ben knew that there was a reason for it, a reason for everything, but Blaine wasn't talking and for the first time, Ben didn't know what to do about that. Blaine with that lump already swelling on his head, an angled cut in the center of it, the exact shape of the corner of his locker, and Ben practically begging at that point, "I can make this stop, Blaine. We can make this stop. But you have to_ tell _me --"_

"I'm not afraid of moving," Kurt says, deflecting easily. It seems like something he'd be good at; he has the air of a natural about him. "I mean, Dalton's not that far; I wouldn't even have to board or anything, so that's not... I'm not worried about _that_."

"No," Ben agrees, keeping his voice light and pleasant even as he leans in a little bit. Pushing. Testing. "But you _are_ worried about something. Aren't you? You're worried that if you tell the truth about what's happening to you, something will happen. Something you don't want."

It's too far; Kurt's eyes widen a little bit before he pulls back, his face going almost completely blank. There's just the faintest trace of nervousness still showing, something he hasn't quite learned to hide. "I should go," Kurt says, setting his mug down. A little tea slops over the side and splashes on the desk; Kurt doesn't seem to notice. "I need to... to help with dinner. My dad, he's... he's not a very good cook. But thank you. For the tea, and for... everything." One pale hand gestures vaguely at the room.

"Anytime," Ben says, and forces himself to his feet one last time. He can't let himself act disappointed, to show that he's aware of how he's slipped up. And anyway, it's best if he shows Kurt out, if he stays with him for those last few steps. "My door is open. Whenever you need it."

"Thank you," Kurt says again, and it's a little more genuine, a little less forced. "I'll... I'll keep it in mind."

Ben nods. "Good."

Kurt gives him a little half-wave before he slips off down the hallway and out of sight. 

It's not until he's gone that Ben wonders, for the first time, what the hell he's doing.


	3. Everything in Its Right Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Blaine are good at keeping secrets from everyone else, but not from each other.

They have a very strict "No phones at dinner" policy, Blaine and his dad. 

Everywhere else, Blaine always has his phone. Always there, always on. His dad does too; Blaine's made sure of it, after what happened in Portland. It's important; if something happens, Blaine wants to know his dad will call him. He wants to know he can call his dad if he needs him. But at dinner, it's different. Even if they don't talk at all, they're together, in the same room and at the same table. It's important; the phone is a distraction, and Blaine doesn't want to be distracted from what's important. 

Except he _is_ distracted, has been all day. He's worried about Kurt, worried about... something, something nebulous and undefined that seems to be hanging in the air, vague but threatening. He's worried that something's about to go very badly wrong. And that must be why he forgot to turn off his phone. 

It's on silent, at least, but it's got a loud buzz, loud enough to make Blaine flinch when it goes off in his pocket. He looks up at his dad, knowing that the guilt is written all over his face.

His father watches him for just a second, then turns back to his plate. "You're excused, Blaine," he says, quietly, and there's no anger in his voice, but somehow it makes Blaine's stomach twist anyway. 

"Dad," he says, feeling weirdly helpless. His dad looks up again, still calm (he's always calm, except for when he isn't), and somehow Blaine knows he doesn't want to answer the phone. He doesn't want his life to change. He wants to have dinner with his dad and then go do his homework and go to bed and wake up and go to school and not have to worry about anything but the Warblers and his grades and maybe college, somewhere down the line. "I don't... It can wait."

The phone stops buzzing for a second, and Blaine feels the worst kind of guilty relief.

It starts up again a second later.

"I saw Kurt today," his dad says, and Blaine's mouth goes dry, because he doesn't want to do this; he's not _ready_. "At school. I... I think you'd better answer the phone, Blaine."

Blaine's pretty sure he feels his heart stop for just a second. Before he even knows what he's doing, he's pushing his chair back and scrambling away from the table, digging his phone out of his pocket as he hurries out of the kitchen. He doesn't even bother with "Hello" when he accepts the call, just says "Kurt? Kurt, what's wrong? What happened?"

Kurt is sobbing down the other end of the line, and it's too late. Whatever's happening, it's already started, and he's not going to be able to stop it now.

It's too late.

 

*

 

"Dad?"

When Ben glances up, his son is standing at the door of his office, still dressed in his Dalton uniform; he looks a little sheepish, not upset or frightened, but Ben's pushing up to his feet anyway, leaning just a little on the desk to forestall any flareups in his back. "Blaine?" he asks. "Is everything all right? Are you --"

"It's fine," Blaine says, quickly, taking a few steps into the room. He doesn't shut the door behind him. "No, Dalton wound up cancelling classes today, because of the... You know. The bird situation." 

Ben raises an eyebrow, studying his son. He can't imagine McKinley ever shutting down over a few dead birds. On the other hand, Blaine is a terrible liar. If he were making this up, surely Ben would be able to tell. "That bad?" he asks.

Blaine shrugs, but his nose crinkles in remembered disgust. "I guess they kind of divebombed the dorms last night," he says. "It... uh... It was pretty bad." He chuckles ruefully, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "And so now they're worried that maybe there's some kind of a disease that's making them... Like mad cow, you know, only with birds. So they're --" 

"Disease," Ben says, flatly, and Blaine's eyes widen, his hands going up to forestall any argument.

"I mean, not that it's necessarily anything we could get, and even if it was, no one's been handling the birds, Dad," he says, quickly. "I mean, except for Brett, but that was like the first time it happened and he's been tested for _everything_ , so he's clear, honestly. And no one ever did it since. It's just... I mean, with so many of them this time and everything, they didn't want to take chances. So they're kind of locking down until they can clean everything up. But it's fine, and we'll have school tomorrow, and I don't have Mad Bird Disease, I swear."

"Mad _Bird_ Disease?" a voice asks from the doorway; Ben's head jerks up and Blaine spins, a little startled. It's only Juliet, thankfully, but Ben still can't quite resist the impulse to reach out for Blaine's hand, tug him back a little closer. Juliet catches the gesture; her expression turns from amusement to concern. "Sorry," she says. "Am I... Am I interrupting something?"

"Of course not," Ben says, at the same time that Blaine says,

"Not at all,"

and Ben squeezes his son's hand, and is relieved when Blaine squeezes back once before letting go.

"Juliet, this is my son, Blaine," he says, watching the two shake hands. It's obvious that Juliet is sizing Blaine up a little, comparing him to the stories she's heard and the pictures she's seen. Still, she's more subtle than Blaine; he's smiling at Juliet, but he's also staring. It's both mortifying and strangely endearing; Blaine simply is not capable of stealth. "Blaine, this is my colleague, Juliet Burke."

Juliet rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling. "Actually, I'm the school nurse," she says to Blaine, shaking her head a little. "Your father is the only person here who'd ever refer to me as a _colleague_."

Ben just shrugs. "What? You work here, I work here. We're colleagues. It's not especially complicated." Juliet beams at him; Blaine glances over his shoulder and gives Ben a strange sort of a look, almost proud and yet... There's something else as well. "Anyway, Juliet, could Blaine and I have just one moment? I'll be with you as soon as we're done."

"Of course," Juliet says. "It was lovely to meet you, Blaine." She slips out of the room, smiling at them both over her shoulder one last time.

Blaine watches her go before turning back to his father with something strange and unreadable on his face. "She's pretty," he says, quietly. "Is she... Is she a friend?"

"She's a colleague," Ben repeats, and Blaine gives him a skeptical look. "She's... " Ben clears his throat. "I've been having some back troubles," he says, which isn't a lie exactly. It's not strictly true, but it's not a lie. "Juliet's been... giving me some advice on it. Mostly of the 'You should go see a real doctor' type, but still."

The distraction works flawlessly; Blaine's eyebrows draw together, and he steps in a little closer. "You _are_ going to see a doctor," he says. "Right? Because if she thinks that you should see a doctor, then you should probably --"

"Why are you assuming that I haven't already done so?" Ben asks, a little amused and a little taken aback by the intensity of Blaine's concern. "We've talked about what happens when you make assumptions, Blaine. It never ends well. You know that."

"Dad," Blaine huffs, not placated in the slightest. "I don't want you to put this off. You're not as young as you used to be, and we're not..." He glances around, like he's afraid that Juliet's crept back in to listen, like he's worried that someone will overhear, and Ben suddenly knows exactly what his son is about to say. "We're not on the Island anymore, Dad," Blaine whispers, leaning in. 

"I know," Ben says, and tries to ignore how close Blaine is coming to the truth, how easy it would be to just tell him. He knows how much damage it would do. "Blaine, I..." He reaches out and catches at Blaine's hands. "I've already gone in for X-rays. They're having me run some other tests as well, just as a precaution. I go in for those next week. I'm not..." He shakes his head. "I promise you, Blaine, that I am taking this very seriously. I promise."

Blaine pulls back just a little, studying Ben's face, and Ben can't help but wonder how much longer he'll be able to hide from his son; not just the mass, but everything, everything he's been so afraid that Blaine will discover. Then Blaine sighs, obviously deciding not to press the issue. "Dad," he says again, holding tight to his father's hands. "Did you want me to -- I was going to take Kurt out to lunch when he gets out of class. Only because he had kind of a really bad day yesterday, and I thought -- But I could stay. If you wanted. Or we could... I mean, if we all went, I don't think Kurt would mind much. I think he thinks you're kind of cool."

It's an easy way out, and Ben's not too proud to snatch at it with both hands, grateful for the escape. "It's fine," he says. "I was planning on eating lunch with Juliet, actually. Since she's been so helpful, I..."

Blaine gives him a small, tentative smile, but there's something a little unhappy in it. "Sure," he says. "No problem. But I'll see you at home, right? For dinner?"

"Of course," Ben says, and squeezes Blaine's hands again. "I was going to make chicken, but under the circumstances, perhaps we'd better revise those plans."

"I'll pick something up on my way home," Blaine says. He hesitates for just a second, then leans back in to press a kiss to Ben's forehead, like he's the parent and Ben is the child. They linger there for just a moment, together, and then Blaine finally slips away. "She really is beautiful, Dad," he murmurs, before turning to leave.

"She's just a colleague," Ben protests, and Blaine shakes his head, giving Ben one last sad smile before he leaves the office. 

 

*

 

Last night he told himself that he wouldn't, anymore. That he _couldn't_. No matter what his father said. There is right, and there is wrong. This is wrong. What he is doing is wrong.

But then he finds himself walking down the hallway towards Mr. Anderson's office, and he sees _her_ standing there, staring right at him. Like she's been waiting for him. Like she knew he was coming. He looks down at his shoes, pretends not to notice (because this is what they do at the school, he doesn't see her and she doesn't see him), and tries to keep walking. But he can't keep to stop his steps from slowing. 

Something's going to happen. He knows it. And he knows it's not going to be anything good (it never is, when she's around), but he has to be here for it anyway. 

"Would it help if I told your dad that there's really no such thing as Mad Bird Disease?" she asks, and Dave glances up, because he knows that wasn't directed at him. 

The boy she's speaking to is small, smaller even than Hummel, with a prep school blazer on and something a little nervous in his eyes. "That won't be necessary," he says, quickly. "But... thank you. For offering. It's very kind of you."

She laughs, and the boy blinks at her, looking a little offended. "Sorry," she says. "It's just... you are so much like your father that it's not even funny."

"Thank you," the boy says again, but it doesn't sound as strained this time. It sounds like he means it. Then he glances up, and his eyes meet Dave's for just a second, and Dave drops his head, speeds up his steps a little. He doesn't look up, even when he hears the boy saying "I have to go... meet someone. A friend of mine. But it was nice to meet you, Nurse --"

She laughs again. "Call me Juliet."

"Juliet," the boy repeats.

"Actually," she says, her voice quiet, and Dave slows back down, just a little bit, just enough to keep her within earshot. "There's something I... There's something you should know, Blaine. About your dad."

Then her voice is dropping to a whisper (it's worse when she whispers, always), and Dave knows he couldn't keep listening, even if he wanted to. He speeds up, hurrying down the hall, around the corner, and away from her. 

He tells himself, one more time, that he can stop this happening if he tries hard enough, but he's no longer so sure he believes it

(Fifteen minutes from now, he will see the boy in the prep school blazer again, and they will recognize each other, and he will know. That he doesn't get to say what he cannot or will not do; that it doesn't matter whether what he's doing is right or wrong. Something is pushing him, pushing him to do these things whether he wants to or not. And when he grabs that prep school boy by the blazer and shoves him back against the railing of the steps, he will pretend, for just a moment, that he is pushing back.)

 

*

 

He has stopped shaking by the time his dad gets home.

Mostly, anyway.

It's not that he's mad -- he is, a little bit, but not too much, because he understands. His dad doesn't actually keep too many secrets from him, considering, and when he does, it's usually something Blaine doesn't want to know, or even really think about knowing. And maybe his dad should have told him sooner, but then that's kind of Blaine's fault, isn't it? He flat-out _said_ he'd hide things from his dad if he got sick, if he thought it would hurt his health any. He should have known what that would do to his dad, after Fort Wayne, after... after everything.

And God, it's not like he has room to talk, after what happened with Karofsky this afternoon. For just a second there, he really thought he was going to have to...

So he's not really mad. He doesn't know what he is, honestly.

But at least he's stopped shaking. Mostly.

"It's just me," his dad calls out as he opens the door, and Blaine breathes in, breathes out, keeps his hand steady. Slices another apple in half, then into quarters. It's easier to cut the core out this way. 

"In the kitchen," he shouts back, listening to the sound of the door shutting, his father's bag landing on the floor. "And there's a hook for that, you know."

"Yes, Blaine, it's nice to see you too," his father retorts, calmly enough, but Blaine can tell; he _knows_. Or maybe he doesn't know anything; maybe Blaine's just feeling so guilty that he's reading too much into it. It doesn't matter, really. He's not bringing it up until his father does. 

Socked footsteps on the tile of the kitchen floor. Blaine sets the knife down, and waits, bracing himself.

He can't quite stop himself from flinching when his father's hand settles against his back, pressing just lightly, like he's feeling out the bruises by touch alone. "I've had worse," he points out, trying to sound calm. He's not as good at it as his dad is, though; it doesn't work as well.

"You realize that doesn't exactly make me feel better about this, Blaine," his father replies. Then he sighs, his hand drifting up to squeeze the top of Blaine's shoulder. "That boy is five times your size, at least. What were you thinking? _Were_ you thinking?"

"You've taken on guys that big before," Blaine points out, and can't keep himself from sounding a little sullen. "I've seen you."

"Yes, when I'm _armed_. And never in public, Blaine, you know that." But his hand is still tight on Blaine's shoulder, and Blaine knows that his dad is way more upset than he's willing to show. "We only do these things when we have to, Blaine, and you didn't have to. You wanted to. But you didn't have to."

Blaine sighs and turns around, leaning back against the counter. It's funny how, sometimes, his dad will try so hard not to say something that it suddenly becomes blindingly obvious. Like how he's refusing to admit that he was frightened, watching Blaine take on Karofsky (and how did he see that, anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be with Juliet?) Only he's so determined not to say it that it makes its way into every word out of his mouth. He was scared. Blaine scared him. 

It's an effort for Blaine to meet his father's eyes, but he manages. "I'm sorry," he says. "Don't be mad?"

His father shakes his head, turning away to look at the sliced apples browning on the cutting board. "When I saw the two of you on those stairs," he says, quietly. "When I saw that boy _pushing_ you like that, like you were nothing more than a rag doll... God, if it hadn't been for Juliet holding me back, I don't know what --"

"I'm sorry," Blaine says again, and it's his turn to reach out for his dad's shoulder. "It wasn't... It wasn't supposed to be like that. If I'd thought for a second -- All I wanted to do was talk to him. That's all."

"Talk?" his father asks, eyebrow up. "What could you and that boy possibly have to talk about?"

Blaine takes another deep breath, because this is the hardest part. If he can get through this, then the rest will be easy. "That's... That's Kurt's, Dad," he says. "It isn't mine. I don't..." His hand tightens on his father's shoulder. "I would if I could but I _can't_ , Dad. I'm sorry. But I just... can't."

There's a moment where his dad thinks about forcing him to talk; Blaine can see it in his father's eyes. He knows that look, just like he knows the guilty look that invariably follows. His dad thinks these things, sometimes. But he'd never do them. That's why Blaine trusts him; he knows his dad would never even do half the things he's thinking. "All right," his dad says, finally. "All right. For now. But if I think for a second that you're putting yourself in danger with this, Blaine --"

"I know, Dad," Blaine says, and wishes he could just take the easy way out, give up and tell his father just to take care of everything for him. If it was just that Karofsky was a bully, just that he was pushing Kurt around, he might do just that. But it's different, so he can't; it wouldn't be right. And honestly, even if it wasn't... he can't use his dad like that. It's not how they work. "I'm not... I'm going to try to get Kurt to talk about this with... with someone. With you, or his dad, or... someone. And if I can't, I... Anything else, I'll tell you. I promise you, I'll tell you." He lets his hand drop down and grabs at his father's, squeezing hard. "Just... Quid pro quo, Dad. Okay?"

His father stiffens up slightly; Blaine keeps his grip on his father's hand exactly the same, not tighter or looser. "Meaning?" his father asks, glancing quickly at the kitchen window.

"Dad," Blaine says, and doesn't let himself get frustrated. "You had to get x-rays. For your back. And now you need more tests. And I want to know what they saw on those x-rays. I want to know what kind of tests you're getting, and why you need them."

"Juliet already told you," his dad says, quietly, and keeps staring out the window. "Didn't she? So I don't see why you'd need it repeated. You're smarter than that, Blaine."

Blaine shrugs, still holding his father's hand. "Maybe I don't trust Juliet," he says (because honestly, he's not sure he does, yet. He's not sure he can). "Maybe I'm not going to believe anything until I hear it from you."

His father shifts his gaze to the countertop, to the cutting board and the apple slices. "Those apples are pretty brown," he says. "We're going to have to throw them away if they sit out any longer."

"It's okay," Blaine says. "We've got plenty more." He waits a little bit, before leaning in and adding, "Dad. Please?"

His dad doesn't give in right away -- there's thirty seconds, maybe more, where Blaine starts to wonder if... Then his father finally meets his eyes. "You may not need to sit down for this," he says, quietly. "Since you've already heard it once before. But I think... I think I do."

"We'll both sit down," Blaine says, and leads his father over to the table, lets him go just long enough to pull out a chair for him and grab another for himself. As soon as they're both seated, he reaches out and snags his father's hands again.

"You know this doesn't change anything," his father says, but he doesn't pull away. "I don't want you to use this as a reason to hide things from me. And I don't want you to treat me differently. Or coddle me -- you know how I hate --"

" _Dad_ ," Blaine says, and he's almost laughing, except he knows how serious this is. "Please. Just tell me?"

His father takes a deep breath.

Then he lifts his head, fixes Blaine's eyes with his, and says, "There's a tumor," and Blaine is suddenly glad he's sitting down. Because maybe he believed Juliet and maybe he didn't (and it's weird, isn't it, her telling him about the tumor and then being there with his dad when he got in that fight with Karofsky, like she'd planned it out, like she _knew_ , somehow). But it's different, hearing it from his dad. It's real, hearing it from his dad.

"Okay," Blaine says, and squeezes his dad's hand. "Okay. Tell me everything you can."

 

*

 

_It's almost peaceful now, by the fire. His father has slunk off to God-knows-where, still licking his wounds after being shown up by a twelve year-old, and everyone else is giving Ben a wide berth. He'd like to pretend it's because he stood up to Charles, and maybe it is, but not in the way he would have wanted. No one wants to be on Charles's bad side. It's a dangerous place to be. Ben's the first person in a long time to take that chance._

_But the baby in his arms has settled, one tiny hand gripping tight at Ben's finger, and he finds he can't regret it much._

_"Here," Richard says, sitting down next to him and holding out a bottle. A baby's bottle, full of milk. Ben is oddly touched by the gesture. "Sorry I wasn't able to warm it up for him."_

_"It's all right," Ben says, reluctantly withdrawing his finger from the child's grip so he can reach out and take the bottle from Richard. "I don't think he's quite ready for dinner yet anyway."_

_Richard leans in a little, studying the bundle in Ben's arms. "He's quiet," he says. "Is he sleeping?"_

_Ben just shrugs and resettles the baby a little closer to his chest. One arm comes out of the blankets, to swipe aimlessly at the air; Ben sets the bottle down in the dirt at his feet and puts his hand back where it was before. Tiny fingers wrap around his thumb, and the baby settles again. "So I'm assuming it's not Jacob's will that he starve to death, then," he says, quietly. "Since you're helping to feed him, and everything."_

_"I guess not," Richard says, his eyes still on the baby. When Ben glances over at him, he sees the smallest of smiles on Richard's face. "Congratulations, Ben."_

_"Congratulations," Ben repeats, quietly. "For what?"_

_"Well." Richard's smile broadens slightly. "You're a father now."_

_For some reason, hearing it out loud for the first time makes Ben's breath catch in his throat. "I suppose I am," he says, his voice gone strangely hoarse._

_Richard pats him on the shoulder and pushes up to his feet. "Let me know if you need help deciding on a name."_

"Blaine? Blaine!"

There's just barely enough light in the room for Ben to see his son, sitting bolt upright in bed, one hand clutching at his chest as he wheezes, choking on air. Ben hurries to the bed, sitting down next to Blaine and reaching out immediately to rub his back, trying to soothe him. "It's all right," he says, gently tugging Blaine's clutching hand away from his chest. "It's all right. I'm here."

"Dad?" Blaine asks, his voice only just audible, his hand twisting in Ben's grip until he can break free, grasping at Ben's shirt.

Ben lets him cling, keeps rubbing his back, mindful of the bruises. Not that Blaine's feeling them right now; he doesn't feel anything when he gets like this. He could fall out of bed and twist his ankle, lash out and smash his knuckles into the wall, hit his head against the bedside table, and he'd never know until morning. All he can feel, right now, is the fear. And there is nothing that Ben can do about it, and he _hates_ that. 

"I'm here, Blaine," he says, and when Blaine uses his fistful of shirt to pull Ben closer, Ben closes his arms around his son and holds on tightly. "I'm right here."

"Dad," Blaine breathes, and buries his face in his father's shoulder. His whole body shudders with each breath, like it takes every ounce of strength in him just to drag in the air. "Dad, Dad, Dad, _Dad_..."

Ben shushes him; he can feel himself rocking, instinctively, like Blaine is a baby again and all he needs is a little gentle movement to coax him back into sleep. "It's okay," he murmurs. "I'm here. You're safe now, Blaine. You're safe."

"It was the light again," Blaine whispers, and clings to Ben's shirt with both hands. "It was the light, and it _took_ you, and... Dad..."

"I'm here, Blaine," Ben repeats, and closes his eyes, and rocks his son, and waits for the panic to stop. "I'm right here."

" _Dad_ ," Blaine says again, and presses in closer, and starts to cry.


	4. The Substitute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is suspicious, and yet no one suspects a thing.

"I'm a terrible person," Kurt sighs, sinking down on Blaine's neatly made bed. 

"No, you're not," Blaine says, and it could almost be too quick, like he's saying it on reflex. But then it could _not_ be, either, and Blaine's been pretty sincere so far, and God knows it's not like Kurt can't be too suspicious sometimes, so he figures maybe he should take it on faith.

"It's just..." Kurt sighs again, taking one last look at the terrifying number of _Missed Call_ messages on his phone before setting it face down on the bed next to him. "It's not that I don't want to spend time with Mercedes. I do. Of course I do. I just... I feel like the entire time, I'm going to just be sitting there, thinking about it, and wondering if I should tell her or if I shouldn't, because if I don't she'll know I'm hiding something but if I do then it'll be all over the school by Monday and I just can't do that. I mean, even if it didn't go horribly wrong and end in me getting killed, which it probably would, _he’d_ probably get killed and I know I shouldn't... It's not that I feel sorry for him, because I don't, but that doesn't mean... That doesn't mean I want to hurt him."

"'Course not," Blaine murmurs, and sits down next to him, his hands folded in his lap. 

"But it's all I can think about and right now I just... It's stupid, I know, but it's hard enough just being around my father, or Carole and Finn, or whatever. I just need ten minutes with someone who... With someone who _knows_. You know?" And Kurt looks up, expecting to see Blaine looking back at him with wide, hazel eyes, full of sincerity and promise. Instead, he gets Blaine staring at his hands, lost in thought. "Okay," he says, briskly. "What's wrong?"

That makes Blaine look up, quickly, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. "Kurt," he says. "Sorry. I wasn't -- it's not you, I promise. I just..."

"Blaine, if I thought it was me, I'd ask you what _I'd_ done wrong," he says, although that's not strictly true and he knows it. Blaine doesn't, so he feels it's something he can get away with. "You've been distracted all afternoon. What's wrong? You're not... I mean, your dad's not weird about having me over, is he? He's not upset about the -- You know, about me being --"

"No!" Blaine says, and this time it is pretty quick, but Kurt decides to let him get away with it just this once. "No, Kurt, that's not -- It's not a problem, believe me. My dad, he's... he's really good about me being gay, and you being..." Blaine sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "It's not a problem. Really. Okay, Kurt?"

"Okay," Kurt says, quietly, and watches Blaine's face. He's so transparent sometimes; not all the time, but sometimes. Like every feeling is just right there, and Kurt has to wonder how he can get through the day sometimes, with everything so much on the surface.

"I just..." Blaine gives Kurt the oddest look, then, something longing and conflicted and scared, and Kurt wants to reach out but he can't quite make himself do it; he doesn't know if Blaine would pull back or lash out or what, and he's not sure he could take that right now. "It's this dream. It's... Ever since I was a little kid, I've been having the same dream -- not all the time, but, you know, enough that I remember it by now. And every time I have it, it's like... I know that something's going to happen. Something bad." He glances up at Kurt. "I'm sorry. I know that sounds crazy. I just..."

"It doesn't," Kurt says, and places one hand over both of Blaine's before he can talk himself out of it. Blaine blinks at him, then blinks down at Kurt's hand covering his, like he can't quite figure out what Kurt is doing. "It doesn't sound crazy at all." 

Because Kurt knows about things like this, about the weird associations people make sometimes, and how they can take hold and make people push their memories into patterns, remembering what fits and then forgetting what doesn't. And maybe that means he doesn't believe that Blaine's dreams can predict the future, or anything, but it doesn't mean that he thinks Blaine is crazy either. He's just normal, doing what normal people do. That's all. 

"Can I ask..." And he shouldn't, really, but Blaine's looking at him like he can't quite believe he's real, and it's making Kurt get ahead of himself. "What kind of bad things happen? When you have the dream?"

Blaine shudders, staring at his hands again. "Bad," he whispers, sounding frightened enough to send a shudder up Kurt's spine, even if he doesn't really believe in premonitions or anything. "I can't... It's not like I don't trust you, Kurt, because I do, I promise, I just..."

"Hey," Kurt says, trying to say it the way Blaine said it to him, kind and patient and soothing. He's pretty sure it doesn't sound as good coming from him. "Hey, no, it's okay. I mean, you just met me, so I'm not... You don't have to tell me everything. I understand."

"But you've trusted me," Blaine says, and his hands shift a little so that Kurt's is trapped between them. "You've trusted me with so much, and I don't want to -- it's not that I don't want to, I just --"

"Whenever you're ready," Kurt says, and Blaine exhales, his body slumping a little into Kurt's and making Kurt want to promise more, promise everything. "It doesn't have to be right now. When you're ready."

"I just..." And it's funny, how Blaine is getting heavier against Kurt's shoulder and Kurt feels like he should really be hating that, but he can't hate it at all. "I kind of don't want to think about it right now. You know?"

It's kind of a stupid question; of course, Kurt knows, didn't he just _say_ \-- "Then don't," he suggests, and leans back into Blaine just a little, propping him up. Actually, he really doesn't hate this at all. It's actually really pretty nice. He's been leaning on everyone else for God knows how long now, and it's just not like him; he feels better when he's got someone to support. "I won't think about things either. We can not-think together. Watch a movie or something."

Blaine's gratitude is so obvious that it almost hurts to see it. "Really?" he asks, then shakes his head. "Sorry. I mean, yeah. Of course. We'll... we'll watch a movie." He stands up without letting go of Kurt's hand, dragging him up, too, then drops Kurt's hand as soon as he realizes what he's doing. "Sorry! Sorry, I was just... I..."

"It's okay, Blaine," Kurt says, laughing a little, and smooths his clothing out before reaching out to take Blaine's hand again. Blaine squeezes his fingers tight, and gives him that look of unbearable gratitude that kind of makes Kurt want to wrap himself around Blaine and give the rest of the world the finger. "Come on. Let's go watch a movie. Unless you think your dad would mind?"

"He doesn't mind, Kurt," Blaine says again, but now he sounds a little uncertain. "I mean... he _shouldn't_ , because he likes to work in the kitchen, but his back's been hurting him a lot lately, so he might need to be somewhere more comfortable for a while, so maybe we shouldn't... Or we could..."

And it's the weirdest thing, but Kurt suddenly feels like he knows exactly what Blaine's dream was about, and what Blaine is so frightened of now. "We could pick something he likes?" he suggests. "And then if he wants to, he can take a break and watch it with us. I wouldn't mind."

Blaine's eyes are huge; he looks at Kurt like he can't believe he's real, and it makes Kurt want to preen, just a little bit. "Really?" he asks again. 

"Really," Kurt says, and tugs Blaine out towards the living room. "Come on. Let's see what your dad wants to do."

 

*

 

"I was wondering when you'd come to apologize," Ben says, barely glancing up from his book as Juliet settles down at his table in the faculty lounge. 

She doesn't answer right away, just reaches out to lift the spine of the book, raising it off the table so she can see the cover. " _Carrie_ ," she says, quietly. "One of my favorites."

Ben lifts his eyes from the page, looking at her. She seems calm enough, but there's that little pinched something around the corners of her eyes and mouth. "Really?" he asks. "It's pretty depressing. Honestly, I'm not even sure why I'm reading it."

"Ben," Juliet says, but doesn't keep going. She presses her lips together, looks at the table, looks back up at Ben. "No lunch today?"

Ben just shrugs and turns the page. "I'm fasting."

"For religious reasons?" she asks, and Ben can't quite resist giving her a look at that. The only relief is that she doesn't seem particularly pleased with herself over finally eking out a reaction from him. "Tests today?"

"You knew that already," Ben reminds her, stopping just shy of pointing out the fact that she's obviously chosen today to talk to him again for that reason and that reason only. Because honestly, he could stand to talk to someone with a bit of knowledge about these things, and she knows that. He could use some comfort, or at least some information, something to ease his mind. He's vulnerable. And Juliet knows and she's attempting to take advantage of it. 

She could be slightly less obvious about it, at least.

"Are you nervous?" she asks, leaning in a little bit.

Ben scoffs. "Nervous? About the large, quite possibly cancerous mass surrounding the base of my spine?" He keeps his eyes on the page, even though he hasn't actually managed to read any of the words on it. "Of course not, Juliet. Don't be silly. I'm perfectly calm about my tumor."

"Ben," Juliet says again, a little more desperately, and covers the book with her hand. 

"Ben Anderson," someone else says, cheerfully, and Ben looks up, blinking. There's a woman standing at the edge of the table; a blonde, with a short skirt and long legs. She's attractive enough, Ben thinks. She's also a total stranger to him. "Am I right? You're Ben Anderson. Blaine's dad." The woman holds out her hand, and Ben stands to take it. " _Signora_ Holliday. I subbed for Blaine's Italian class for a few weeks. Nice kid. Really good accent."

"Oh," Ben says, still a little perplexed. "Yes. Well. I'm sorry I don't quite recall meeting you, but..."

"Oh, we never really _met_ met," Miss Holliday says, sliding into Ben's empty seat, and Ben has to pull a chair from a nearby table just to be able to sit down, squeezed awkwardly between Juliet and Miss Holliday. "But I saw you when you came to pick him up sometimes. And I figured you weren't dressed well enough to be a butler or a chauffeur, so that pretty much meant you _had_ to be his dad. Or, you know, a pedophile. One of the two."

For the first time in a long time, Ben actually feels his jaw drop. Just a little, but still.

"Not that I _really_ thought you were --" Miss Holliday laughs. "Sorry. I don't know why I always say things like that. Fortunately it doesn't happen in the classroom. I mean, not that often. There was this one time -- I was subbing for a history class and we were talking about J. Edgar Hoover and I kind of got carried away, you know, and ... Long story short, that was the last time I was invited to teach a class at Defiance Christian Academy. But apart from that and the... you know, the incident over in Fostoria, I'm usually pretty good. In the classroom."

She beams at Ben. 

He turns to Juliet for assistance, only to find her pushing her chair back and standing up. "Well," she says, clearing her throat. "On that note. I've still got that monkey flu outbreak to deal with, so. Nice to meet you, _Signora_ Holliday." She takes a few steps away from the table, then turns and looks back at Ben for just a moment. "Good luck today, Ben," she says, quietly. 

It sobers him up instantly, reminds him that he's got far worse things to deal with today than a slightly unusual substitute teacher. "Thank you," he replies, and watches her walk away.

As soon as she's gone, Miss Holliday is leaning over the table, pushing into Ben's space, her eyes wide. "Monkey flu?" 

"Our new principal is... somewhat prone to exaggeration," Ben says, as gently as he can. There's no possible way for him to explain to this woman what Principal Sue is like; she'd never believe him. She'll have to see for herself. "It's an ordinary flu virus, the same thing we deal with every year. Nothing too terrible."

"That's a shame." Ben blinks at her, and she backtracks again. "Sorry, sorry. I mean, it's not like I get _excited_ by infectious diseases or anything, although they are kind of crucial to my ability to actually get a job, so. But it would be kind of exciting, wouldn't it? Like _Outbreak_ or something."

She seems genuinely enthused by the idea, and Ben can't quite keep himself from frowning. "Perhaps," he says, as politely as possible. "Anyway, I have some... some grading to do." He stands, not bothering to grab his book; it really was depressing, anyway. He'll find another way to occupy himself for the remainder of his lunch period. "It was nice to meet you, Miss Holliday. I'll... I'll see you around, I'm sure."

She winks at him. "You bet you will," she says, grinning. "And call me Holly."

"Holly," Ben says, managing to smile back at her.

"You know," she says, as he turns to leave. "I've always kind of had this thing for single dads. Which is weird, because I hate stability. So I don't even know what that's about. But there's just something about a guy who cares that much about someone else. I don't know. It just... It _does_ it for me."

Two tables away, the football coach lets out a choking noise that might be laughter, shock, or both.

Ben turns back and nods at Miss Holliday; it's a little stiff, perhaps, but at least it's a gesture. "Have a good day, Miss Holliday," he says, as politely as possible.

Then he basely flees the room.

 

*

 

"Okay," Kurt says, reaching across the table to snag a chip from Mercedes' nachos, one with just the barest amount of cheese on it. It's always been a little weird eating with Kurt, but ever since his dad had that heart attack, it's been super weird. It's like he's convinced himself that if he eats anything bad, it's like his dad is eating it too. So just _seeing_ him in Taco Bell is kind of really strange at this point, let alone watching him actually eat something. "So was this the best idea ever, or was this the best idea ever?"

"Miss Holliday's pretty cool," Mercedes admits, watching their substitute lean over the table she's sharing with Santana and Quinn, whispering to them and making them burst into giggles. "But what about Mr. Schue? I mean, we do want him back. Don't we?"

"Oh, of course we do," Kurt says, brushing nacho crumbs off on a napkin and reaching out to take a sip of his diet Pepsi. He hasn't had pop for a while, either. It's been water, mostly. Water or tea. She's been trying to get him to go out for Orange Julius with her for weeks, but he won't. "I just... I mean, he'll probably be gone for at least a week, Mercedes, and what would you rather do? Spend every day wondering if this is the day that Satan finally manages to break free and claw Rachel's eyes out? Or would you rather have fun?" He snags another chip, this one with a little more cheese. "Seriously, Mercedes, it's not like this year's been great so far. We could use some kind of... a vacation. Don't you think? Just to let our hair down. Just for a little while."

The thing is, Mercedes knows exactly who needs the vacation right now. She knows who's been having the worst year out of all of them, who's under the most pressure right now, who's most in need of a break. And he's sitting right in front of her, sneaking her chips. “Yeah," she says. "Yeah, you're right."

Kurt leans back in his chair, smiling. He has been smiling a lot more lately, at least. Ever since last week, when he went to Dalton. When he met Blaine. "Of course I'm right," he says, easily. "I'm always right." He grabs one last chip and pops it into his mouth with a self-satisfied expression, and for just a second, Mercedes thinks she gets it. This is Kurt's vacation; this is the break he needs in order to come back to them and be himself again. And she's okay with that. She really is.

Then Kurt's phone buzzes, and his face lights up when he pulls it out to check his texts, and maybe Mercedes isn't as quite as okay with this as she'd like to be. But she's gonna try. "So," she says, and plasters a smile on her face. "Big plans with Blaine?"

Kurt frowns down at his phone a little bit, eyebrows drawing together. "Oh, just trying to figure out when to meet, really. His dad's got a doctor's appointment today; he's not sure when it gets over, and then Blaine's still got to take him home, so..." He starts punching out his message, immediately lost in it, like Mercedes isn't there at all.

But the thing is, she’s not jealous. Yeah, she’s upset right now, a little, but it’s not because she’s jealous. It just... It seems a little weird, Blaine taking his dad home instead of Blaine's dad taking him home. Kind of suspicious. But then, maybe it's a single-parent kind of thing, like with Kurt going to all his dad's appointments. 

Except, even Kurt didn't do that, really. Not before the heart attack, anyway. After it, of course he did. But never before. "Is he sick?" she asks, leaning in a little bit. "Blaine's dad; is there something wrong with him?"

"I don't know." Kurt's voice is absent, a little, thoughtful. He types out one last thing, then sets his phone down. "Blaine hasn't really said anything about it. But I kind of get this feeling that maybe he might be, you know? Or that Blaine thinks he is. He seems..." Kurt shakes his head. "I don't know. I'm sure Blaine will say something, sooner or later."

"Maybe," Mercedes says, but she can't help but feel a little doubtful. Not jealous, not at all. Just doubtful. "I don't know, though. Wouldn't he tell you? You told us about your dad."

Kurt just shakes his head. "I told _you_ about my dad," he says, giving her a funny, sad little smile. "I didn't exactly go around telling everyone else. The way Finn talks about it, it's like he and I never spoke about it at all, which is ridiculous, but whatever." He sighs and sips his pop. "And... I mean, yes, Blaine and I have connected on a certain level, but still. He's only known me for a week. If something serious is going on... I don't know if I'd talk to me either."

"I would," Mercedes says, partially because it's true and partially because she knows it'll make Kurt's smile broaden and his eyes brighten. And even if it's not the same way that a text from Blaine makes him light up... Well, it's still something. "And if something's wrong and he doesn't talk to you about it, then he's a dummy."

"Hmmm." But Kurt's smile is exactly the way Mercedes wants it to be, full and real and just for her. 

It's not enough, though, so she pushes it a little further. "And if he keeps acting strange, you bring him to me and I'll tell him what's what."

That makes Kurt laugh a little, and this time, when he reaches across the table, he leaves his hand over hers, palm down, waiting patiently until her hand turns palm up, and they can flutter their fingers together before sweeping back imaginary bangs. Once again, Mercedes thinks that she can be happy for Kurt. If this guy is legit, if he's good to her boy, she can be happy for him. 

As long as it means she gets her Kurt back, in the end.

 

*

 

"I just can't figure this out. I mean, _why_ would Kurt do this to me? To _us_? He knows how close we are to Sectionals, and how important it is that we --"

"Rachel," Finn says, and it kind of comes out more like a sigh, which makes her give him a dirty look. Which he doesn't like, like at all, but on the other hand, he's kind of starting to feel like maybe she's overreacting a little bit. On the other other hand, they're sitting in his truck right now, which means that if she gets mad at him it's going to be really hard for him to get away. But on the other other other hand, it is kind of weird that he's this scared of making Rachel mad, and while he knows better than to take relationship advice (or any kind of advice) from Puckerman, he's starting to think that all those comments about him being "whipped" might be kind of a little maybe true. "Look, maybe this is a good thing. I mean, we kind of have to have a teacher, right? It's like, the rules or something. If we didn't, Principal Sue would probably ban glee club forever. I mean, yeah, Miss Holliday's not the most serious teacher ever --"

"She took us to _Taco Bell_ , Finn!"

"But she did have us sing first," Finn says, trying to sound reasonable. He should have practiced with Kurt, first. Kurt's good at sounding reasonable, except for when he isn't. "And she probably won't do that every day." Which is kind of a bummer, really, because Finn could totally get used to scarfing down a few burritos before football practice. He thinks it's probably a good thing, like people who eat pasta before they run (although the one time he tried that, he totally barfed everywhere, but he figures that was just because he hadn't let his body get used to the idea). "Look, at least she's not actively trying to destroy us, right? Or actively trying to... you know. Like... Mr. Ryerson, or whatever." 

He wonders if maybe he should point out that Puck said that Mike said that Artie said he saw Mr. Ryerson being dragged out of the building by Coach Beiste today. Artie's a reliable source. Maybe Rachel would feel better if she knew how much worse it could have been. "Actually," he says, trying to work his way around to it, but Rachel lifts her shoulder a little bit and turns away from him, staring out the window like she's pissed, and it kind of makes him forget how to talk.

Sometimes he wonders why he always winds up liking girls that scare him a lot.

"Maybe," Rachel says, a little bitterly. "Although I have to say that if those are our only other options, that says something awful about the state of McKinley in general, and I for one find it quite depressing."

"Totally," Finn says, because okay, he can get on board with that. "Look, Rachel, I know you're worried. And I am too, don't get me wrong, but --"

And for just a second, he realizes that he could make a totally awesome speech right now about how sometimes they're best when they're loose, like last year at Sectionals when they had to learn their songs like half an hour before the performance and Mr. Schue wasn't there for that either but he and Rachel figured it all out and they won and so it all worked out, but then Rachel grabs his arm and she's like super-strong and it actually kind of hurts a little, and he forgets what he was going to say. 

"Finn!" Rachel hisses, stabbing at the window with her finger. "Finn! We're being _infiltrated_."

He blinks at her, then at the window, trying to remember what _infiltrated_ means. He's pretty sure it has something to do with cars, maybe, but then he's also pretty sure that his car windows don't have filters, so --

"That boy," Rachel says, leaning so close to the window that her nose presses against the glass, dragging Finn along with her until he almost falls into her lap and has to catch himself with one arm against the back of her seat. "That boy is wearing a Dalton Academy uniform. He's a spy, Finn. A _spy_."

Oh. That's what _infiltrated_ means. Now he remembers. 

"We sent Kurt to spy on them," he reasons. "They probably just figured they should spy back." But he stays where he is, leaning over Rachel and peering out the window, trying to figure out who he's supposed to be looking at. There's a lot of people in the parking lot -- all the glee kids getting back from Taco Bell, everyone else on their way out to go home (or maybe go to Taco Bell themselves -- he'd totally head off for Taco Bell after classes if he hadn't already been), and it takes him a while to figure out which person is the spy. Finally, he spots a kid in a blazer and tie, which wouldn't be that unusual if it were Kurt, but he's pretty sure this guy's too short to be Kurt. Also, he's talking to someone who Finn is pretty sure is one of the math teachers, and Kurt hates math, so. 

Except then he sees Kurt hurrying across the parking lot to join them, so maybe Kurt likes math more than he thought. 

Although at least now he knows that Kurt didn't change into a blazer sometime between going to Taco Bell and heading back to the school, and also that Kurt is, in fact, as tall as he thought he was. Which is reassuring. 

Rachel's hand tightens on his arm. "Oh my God," she whispers. "He's been _turned_."

"Rachel," Finn says, and tries not to roll his eyes. "Just because Kurt's talking to a math teacher doesn't mean that he's --"

"What math teacher?" Rachel asks, then shakes her head and cuts Finn off before he can answer. "Never mind. Honestly, I don't know what you were thinking, sending Kurt to an _all-boys_ school to spy. It's like throwing a lamb into a lions' den. He never had a chance." She sniffles dramatically. (And it blows Finn's mind sometimes, how she can sniffle dramatically. He just sounds gross when he does it.) "Poor Kurt. It'll break his heart when he realizes that prep-school Lothario is just using him to get to our set list."

Finn frowns out the window. It's hard to tell from here, but he kind of feels like the short kid in the Dalton uniform isn't particularly interested in using Kurt. Mostly, he seems interested in the math teacher guy next to him. "I don't know, Rachel," he says, slowly. "I mean, if he's here to use Kurt, why was Kurt the one to talk to him? And how come he's been hanging out with one of our teachers? Look, see? They're getting in a car together." Because they are -- the blazer kid opens the door for the math teacher, then watches him climb in, then closes the door. Then, and only then, does he turn back to Kurt. They talk a little -- not touching or anything, just talking, and then the blazer kid climbs in the driver's side. Kurt gives him a little wave, then folds his arms, watching as the car pulls away.

Rachel presses her lips together, staring intently out the window. "This must be part of their master plan," she whispers. "But what is it?" She straightens up, pushing back on Finn's shoulders until he stops leaning across her lap. Which is a shame, because it was kind of a good position to be in, even if it was, like, spy drama and stuff, and not really sexy. "Right," she says. "Okay. It's fine. We can counter this. But we need more information. You need to talk to Kurt. Find out who's been seducing him. Be discreet."

"Seducing him?" Finn repeats, a little bewildered, and also a little... Because, okay, it's not like he thinks it's gross in general or anything, but Kurt's like almost practically his brother at this point, and the point of being brothers with someone is that you don't think about them doing sex stuff. It's, like, in the rules. "Rachel, I really don't think --"

"And I'll work on figuring out who his accomplice is," Rachel says, rummaging through her purse. "You said you thought he was a math teacher, right?"

She pulls out a pen and a pad of paper, like a detective. It's kind of sexy, in a weird way.

"Yeah," Finn says. "Yeah, I think Artie has class with him, or something. They were talking in the hall the other day. Hey, Rachel, you don't really think that guy... I mean, you don't think he'd actually, like... seduce Kurt, or..."

"It's okay," Rachel says, and presses a quick kiss to his lips. "We'll stop him before he breaks Kurt's heart. I promise you, Finn. No more Jesse St. James scenarios."

"Okay," Finn says. Because yeah, the kid doesn't seem like he's trying to break Kurt's heart, not like Jesse really obviously seemed like he was trying to break Rachel's. But if he is, then Finn needs to stop him, because that's also part of the point of being someone's brother. You don't let their hearts get broken. It's in the rules. "Okay, cool."

Rachel beams at him, and kisses him again, and Finn decides he's totally down for this whole saving Kurt thing. It's going to be great.

 

*

 

Hummel's still watching the parking lot, staring at where the Andersons' car used to be; it's easy for Dave to come up right behind him, lean in, and whisper, "Boyfriend's not here to save you now, Hummel," and watch Kurt jump, turning a little bit as he does so, the shift in his weight making him stumble and almost fall into a parked car next to him. 

It's pointless, of course. If the goal is to get Anderson's attention, there's no reason for him to go after Hummel right now, with no one there to see them. 

It's just that there's something really satisfying in watching the last of the color drain from Hummel's face. 

He straightens up, like he always does, grabbing the strap of his bag with one hand. "What do you _want_ , Karofsky?" he snaps, but he's backing away the entire time, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure he doesn't run into anything.

Dave stays with him, still leaning in. For just a couple of seconds, it's like the parking lot isn't there at all, like there's no other people around. It's just him, and Hummel, the way it should've been from the start. "What do _I_ want?" he repeats, and realizes he doesn't know what to say. Maybe he should say something about Hummel's clothes, or Hummel's stupid glee club; maybe he should say something about how Hummel's always fagging up the place, about how Hummel and his _boyfriend_ are fagging up the place and the two of them together are so gay it kind of physically hurts; maybe he should just forget all that stupid shit and tell the truth, that he doesn't know what he wants anymore, that he thought he knew, that he thought it was his father, but now he's got it and it's nothing like he thought it would be and he _can't_ \-- "What do _I_ want?" he asks again, and it's there, on the tip of his tongue, waiting for him to say it, but --

"Kurt! There you are!" And then the stupid fucking substitute is running over to them, with the wheelchair kid and that black chick and a bunch of other freaks trailing along behind her. "I've been looking for you. Hey, listen, I know you've probably got places to be -- God knows I don't want to hang around this school any longer than I have to, either -- but we were just talking about this really great number you guys could do for Sectionals, and I wanted to see if I could maybe get your input?"

"Sure," Hummel says, his voice a little breathy and high-pitched; he turns away from Dave without even looking back. The substitute does, though; she reaches out and puts her arm around Hummel and as she does so, she stares at Dave like she knows everything, like she knows and she's going to get him for it.

The funny thing is, yeah, it's freaky, but the idea is almost a relief after everything's been going on so long. 

Not that he actually thinks anything's going to happen, though. She's just a substitute; she doesn't know anything. Anyway, nothing's going to stop him now. He’s been thinking about it all weekend, and he’s realized: this is what's supposed to happen. He couldn't stop it even if he wanted to. 

_"What do you want?"_ Hummel asked him.

The truth is, what he wants doesn't matter anymore.

 

*

 

He waits until Blaine's gone back into the living room (to check on his father, _again_ ) before he lets himself slump forward, burying his head in his hands. 

It's funny; it's still easier to be with Blaine than it is to spend time with just about anyone else. Especially when he's so obviously distracted by his dad; honestly, Kurt half thinks he could burst into tears right now, and Blaine would just mutter something about checking on his father and then wander out of the room. But at the same time, it's harder now than it was at the start. Because it's obvious that Blaine's got his own things to think about, his own worries and fears, and Kurt doesn't want to burden him any more than he has to. He doesn't want Blaine coming back to McKinley to confront Karofsky and getting beaten up -- he never wanted that, but he especially doesn't want it now, not if Blaine's dad needs him. But he doesn't want to confront Karofsky himself, and he doesn't want anyone else confronting Karofsky, either. He just wants it to stop. He just...

He just wants it to _stop_.

"Kurt?"

Kurt freezes up at the sound of Blaine's voice, soft and gentle and so, so worried. Apparently, Blaine _is_ paying attention, more than Kurt thought. And apparently Kurt isn't, because he didn't even hear Blaine coming into the room. Still, maybe he can get out of this, somehow; maybe if he -- 

"Sorry," he says, quickly, straightening up and letting his hands fall back down against Blaine's kitchen table. "Sorry, I'm just... It's been a long day, and I guess I just --"

"Kurt," Blaine says again, and so maybe he's not buying it, but at least Kurt _tried_. Blaine sits down, tugging his chair close enough to Kurt's that they're knee-to-knee. "Is it Karofsky? Did something... did he do something?” 

Kurt turns away, hoping to buy himself a little time to think of a lie, and doesn’t realize until it’s too late that he’s just given everything away with that one gesture. 

“Oh, Kurt.” Blaine’s voice is mournful; his hand lands on Kurt’s, clasping tight like an apology. “What happened? What did he do?”

"He didn't..." Kurt presses his lips together, keeps his eyes fixed on Blaine's refrigerator. There's a whiteboard with a shopping list scribbled on it, pictures of Blaine in his Dalton uniform, a flyer advertising upcoming UNOH lectures, with that apocalypse math thing highlighted. It's so weirdly normal. "He just... "

"Kurt," Blaine says, obviously pleading.

Kurt closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "It was after you left," he says, and Blaine's hand tightens instinctively around his. "He didn't _do_ anything; he just snuck up behind me and... He just startled me. That's all. I just..." And if his throat closes up, if he has to squeeze his eyes even tighter shut just to keep the tears in, it's not because he's still frightened; it's because he feels stupid that he was frightened at all, because he feels stupid that he was...

Not was. Is. He _is_ frightened. So, so frightened, and he just wants it to stop; he'd do anything...

"Kurt," Blaine says one more time, aching now; his hand slips away from Kurt's, up to his shoulder and pulling him forward. It's an awkward sort of hug, the two of them still planted in their chairs, just leaning forward until their bodies are resting together, but it helps, somehow. When Kurt sucks in a shuddering breath, he can smell Blaine's cologne and laundry soap and shampoo, and when he lets it out again he slumps a little further into Blaine's warmth. Blaine's hands rub at Kurt's shoulders, gentle and soothing, and it's not quite what Kurt wants, maybe, but it helps anyway.

"It's okay," Blaine says, quietly. "Kurt, it's okay. It's going to be okay."

And Kurt's not totally sure how Blaine knows, but he knows he believes him, and that's enough for the moment.

 

*

 

Blaine doesn't need to look up to know that his father is standing at the entrance to the kitchen, feet poised right at the spot where the carpet ends and the tile begins, one hand braced against the wall. 

He doesn't need to look up, but he does anyway, sees his father watching them, his eyes on Kurt, his mouth set into a thin line. He looks tired, a little bit, worn out from doctors and blood tests and CAT scans and needle biopsies, but there's still that _something_ there; Blaine doesn't know what it is, not really, but he knows that it's what got them off the Island in the first place. It's what's kept them alive ever since, what's kept them safe no matter how many times they find themselves starting over with nothing but their wits to survive on. It's what makes his dad the most dangerous person Blaine's ever met.

(blaine can't help but wonder, briefly, what would happen if his dad didn't like kurt. )

(fortunately, that doesn't seem to be a problem.)

"It's okay," he says, keeping his voice low. His dad hears him anyway, of course; his gaze shifts from Kurt's bowed head to Blaine's face, their eyes locking. "Kurt, it's okay. It's going to be okay."

And Blaine's father nods, just once, but that nod is everything. He knows what Blaine is asking; he knows what needs to happen next. And he’s going to take care of it.

(there’s a scar on his forehead the exact size and shape of the corner of his old locker, back in fort wayne.)

(the school never punished anyone for giving blaine that scar, but that’s okay.)

(his dad took care of it.)

"It's going to be okay, Kurt," Blaine says again, and pulls Kurt in a little bit closer, rests his cheek against Kurt's hair and closes his eyes.


	5. Other Options

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ben goes to a lecture, Burt meets his son's new friend, and Brittany is full of surprises.

Blaine is quiet in the morning, withdrawn. He stares into his coffee, picks listlessly at his oatmeal. Ben can’t help but wonder what it is -- fear for Kurt or fear for Ben, or fear _of_ Ben perhaps (because Blaine knows exactly what his father is capable of when provoked). Or all of the above, perhaps. Blaine’s never really been the sort to worry about just one thing at a time.

He doesn’t ask, of course. When Blaine is like this, it’s best to let him be for the most part. So Ben doesn’t push. He keeps his silence, lets his hands speak for him -- a brush against Blaine’s shoulder here, a touch to the wrist there. Contact has always been the easiest way to console Blaine when he’s upset. 

So Ben rests his hand on Blaine’s shoulder as he crosses behind him to the sink; he lets their fingers brush as he passes the sugar, and he waits for it to work, waits for Blaine to relax a little bit before he asks, casually, “Out of curiosity, has Kurt invited you to his house yet? Not that I mind having him over, of course; it’s just that, with the lecture tonight and everything, I’m not sure how I feel about the two of you being unsupervised here. Not that I’m concerned about _you_ , of course, or even really about Kurt, but. Well.” He offers Blaine a small smile. “I don’t suppose I need to explain to you just why I’m so worried.”

“No,” Blaine says, quickly, his eyes a little wide; Ben briefly regrets having brought up the subject at all, but this is for Blaine’s own good. “No, I -- I’m sorry, Dad; it must’ve... It slipped my mind, that’s all. That you had that lecture tonight. I’ll just... I’ll call Kurt; we can reschedule for tomorrow, or --”

“Oh,” Ben says, quietly, and smiles again. “I don’t know if that’s necessary. I mean, if it is, it is. But if his father’s home for the evening, and they’re willing to have you, well. I’m sure that would be much more entertaining for you than sitting through some boring old math lecture. So why don’t you just check with Kurt, and let me know what he says?”

Blaine blinks at him. “Really?” he asks. “But you -- I mean, not that we haven’t -- but we don’t usually...” His face settles into something a little more suspicious, a little more wary, and Ben thinks, not for the first time, that he’s been a terrible influence on his son. “Wait,” he says. “Wait. Is... Is Karofsky going to be at this lecture?”

Ben keeps his face relaxed and neutral. “I certainly hope so,” he says, calmly. “His grades have been terrible all semester; he could use the extra credit. Honestly, if he’s doing this badly in all his classes, it’s a miracle he hasn’t been expelled yet.” He waits one beat, two beats, three, until Blaine’s face suddenly relaxes, and then he stands up and crosses to stand behind his son, resting both hands on his shoulders. “This isn’t Fort Wayne,” Ben says, quietly, letting his thumbs press in right where Blaine is tense. “My options there were... limited. I have other options now, better ones. Believe me, I’m not going to do anything unless I have to.”

“I know,” Blaine says, but there’s still relief in his voice. “I do, I just... I...”

And there’s the rub, that _Ithought_ of reacting in anger is enough to leave him wracked with guilt. So as understandable as it might be that he wants to lash out, wants to hurt Karofsky the way that Karofsky’s hurt his friend... He would never forgive himself if he acted on the urge. Ben admires that, in a way. It's a little misguided, perhaps, but very noble. And he'd like to protect that nobility, if he can. Just for a little bit longer.

“I know,” Ben says, and squeezes Blaine’s shoulders. “But that’s why you trusted this to me, instead of doing it yourself,” he says, and it’s not a justification, just a simple statement of fact. “Because you know that I’ve got options that you don’t.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, slumping under his father’s hands. “Yeah, of course.”

“See if Kurt’s willing to have you over tonight,” he says, giving Blaine one last pat before letting him go. “I’ll be all right going to the lecture on my own. Honestly, the only student I’m likely to see all night is Michael Chang, and he’s not exactly threatening.”

“Okay,” Blaine says. He turns and looks up at Ben, his eyes wide, a tentative smile on his face. “Dad? Thank you. For...”

Ben just shrugs. “I haven’t done anything yet,” he says, but he bends down to kiss Blaine’s temple anyway. “You can thank me when it’s over.” 

“I will,” Blaine says, with such absolute confidence that Ben hesitates for just a second. Because there are times when Blaine says things like this, like he knows exactly what’s going to happen next, and then of course there are the dreams, and sometimes Ben has to wonder...

He pushes it aside to contemplate another time. Right now, there’s enough on his plate.

 

*

 

"So," Artie says, wheeling up behind Mike in the cafeteria, and Mike swallows hard and looks back over his shoulder. He and Artie still don't really talk to each other. They kind of exchanged eye contact a few times when Kurt's dad was in the hospital and glee club found religion and everything was sort of horribly awkward in a way that completely transcended girlfriends and ex-girlfriends and all the rest of it. And now that Artie's playing football, they see each other at practice and stuff, and sometimes they wave or whatever. But they're still not really friends, and every so often Mike gets the feeling that Artie's about to ram him full-force with his chair just to see what would happen, and so Mike's not really totally happy about Artie talking to him, because he kind of feels like it's going to end in him being kneecapped. "I wanted to ask you something. About Brittany."

Okay. That's okay. Mike can talk about Brittany. Kind of. He can talk about her better than he can talk about Tina, anyway. Which is a start. "What about her?" he asks, passing his plate over the line so one of the lunch ladies can load him up with tater tots.

Artie takes his own helping of tots with a smile before resting his tray on his lap. "When you two were dating, did she ever -- Like, did she ever ask you do to stuff that was... Stuff that you knew she didn't want to do, but she thought you would, and that was why she was doing it?"

Mike grabs a milk carton, then tosses it to Artie when he holds his hands out to catch it. He's careful not to throw it too hard, because yeah, okay, he kind of gets the feeling that this is going to turn into some kind of a massive fight, but he doesn't want to be the one to start it, even accidentally. "Okay, for one thing," he says, grabbing another carton of milk for himself. "Brittany and I never dated. Just because we're, like, the main glee club dancers and we don't really sing that much or whatever, it doesn't mean we actually dated. And I'm sick of people making the assumption that we did. Okay? We're just... we're friends. That's all."

"Okay," Artie says, raising his hands defensively. "Okay, fine, whatever. Seriously, though --"

"And no offense, dude, but I don't want to hear about... _you_ know. What you want to do with Brittany, or whatever. I mean, yeah, at least you're dating her so it's not as gross as when Karofsky or Strando or whoever does it, but... still." Mike wrinkles his nose. "That's your business. I don't need to hear it. You know?"

He passes Artie some silverware and a stack of napkins, and Artie just blinks at him. 

"Okay," Artie says again. "That wasn't even where I was going with that, but okay." He wheels past Mike, heading towards one of the tables in the far corner, and Mike hesitates a little bit before following. He's still not sure where this conversation is going to end up, but he figures that if he puts the table between himself and Artie, he probably won't get run over by the wheelchair. "But you're pretty close with Brittany, right?" he asks, glancing back over his shoulder as Mike hurries after him. "I mean, since you're like, crazy overprotective of her, and everything. So you must know her pretty well."

"I'm not that overprotective," Mike says automatically, waiting for Artie to wheel himself up to the table before he slides in across from him. He catches Artie rolling his eyes, and sighs. "Dude, come on. Trust me; I mean, I know you've heard Karofsky and Strando and the other guys, but that's with Coach Beiste around. It was way worse with Tanaka in the locker room. It was like you could say whatever, and it wouldn't even register. So, yeah, I'm protective of Brittany. She's a good person. I don't like guys talking about her like... Like they talk about her. Or like they used to talk about her, before they were scared that Coach would rip their nuts off if she heard them."

Artie opens his milk, staring down at the table. "She is a good person," he says, finally. "Brittany, I mean. I guess I didn't realize... But that's kind of what's bugging me, you know? I mean, she's awesome the way she is. She doesn't need to change anything. For me. I wouldn't want her to... I don't want her to do things she doesn't want to just because she thinks it'll make me like her. Because I like her already."

Mike watches Artie stare at his tots for a while, like they're magic or something (admittedly, they kind of are), then takes an educated guess. "So," he says, a little hesitantly. "But this isn't a sex thing?"

"You've got calculus with Anderson, right?" Artie asks, looking up at Mike. When Mike nods, Artie nods back. "So you know about that whole fictional math lecture thing." Mike nods again, and Artie just sighs. "I mean, do you really think that sounds like something Brittany would ever in a million years want to go to? Instead of going to Breadstix or a movie or something? Do you really think she'd ever want to go to a math lecture unless she thought it'd make me like her better?"

"Um... yes?" Now it's Mike's turn to blink, mostly because Artie can't -- his eyes are way too wide to allow for any blinking. "Dude, she probably thinks there'll be something about time travel. She loves time travel. It's her favorite thing. Well, that and unicorns. And fondue. And jumpsuits. And kind of the seventies in general, really."

Artie just stares at him for a while. "Really?" he asks, when his mouth finally starts working.

"Totally," Mike says. "She's got this book -- I mean, it's not really a book, kind of more of a journal, but it's like a book to her. It's about this mouse that travels through time. I mean, actually, like I said, it's this guy's journal of the experiments he was doing with electromagnetic energy and time travel. But he was using a mouse for the experiments. She said she used to read it every night before she went to bed, but then she stopped being surprised by what happened, so now she only reads it on Tuesdays." He pops a tot into his mouth, chews on it thoughtfully. "I always wondered why Tuesday, but she never really said."

"Wow," Artie says. "God. I didn't know that. I mean, I'm her boyfriend, and I didn't even know that. How could I not know that?"

Mike shrugs. "She gets kind of defensive about it sometimes. I dunno -- she brought the journal into biology class last year so she could make the mice travel back in time to before they were supposed to be dissected, and Mr. Bonadeo was a major dick about it. So she's probably just worried that you'll make fun of her." Artie cringes at that, and Mike realizes that he's probably not helping as much as he'd like to be. "Look, it's not a big deal," he says. "Just go the lecture with her. She'll like it, that you're doing that with her. 'Cause most guys around here won't, you know?"

That makes Artie look thoughtful for a second, and then he smiles, kind of small and secret and maybe a little bit proud. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, that's true. Hey, but you're going, right? You and Tina?"

"Sure," Mike says, and cracks his milk open. "I mean, I don't need the points right now, but you never know. And my dad says that most of the guys I'll be competing with to get into Harvard will have over a 4.0 average anyway, so." Artie frowns at that, a little, and Mike has to scramble for something else to say. "And Tina says it sounds really interesting, but I don't know if she really cares what we do right now as long as it's not dim sum. So we'll see you there. Maybe we could -- I dunno. Like sit together, or something."

"Sounds good," Artie says, and then balls his hand into a fist, making Mike tense up for a second. But then Artie stretches his arm across the table, so his fist is right in the middle. "Pound it, yo."

They bump fists, and Mike starts to think that maybe he and Artie could be friends again.

 

*

 

It's not like he's against the idea of Kurt having friends. 

Hell, he's thrilled about it, really. He's been thinking about it for a while now, how Kurt's a lot lonelier than he's ever let on. Especially since that whole thing with that Sam kid, when Kurt gave that speech about just wanting to hold someone's hand in the hallway and Burt realized just how complicated this gay thing is, that it's not just about random threatening phone calls and bullying football players, or even about teachers who won't let his kid sing whatever solos he goddamn well wants to sing because boys shouldn't sing girls' songs. Because even if all that went away tomorrow, Kurt would still be alone, surrounded by girls he doesn't want to date and boys who don't want to date him, and it's not like Burt was _that_ busy in high school but still. He had a lot more options than Kurt ever will, and that hurts to think about. 

On the other hand, he'd be a liar if he didn't admit that Kurt's lack of options didn't make _his_ life a lot easier, because it does. It's not like he was really looking forward to this whole dating thing. What parent does?

But now there's this Blaine kid, and he seems okay enough. He's friendly, smiles a lot; he's got good manners. And maybe Burt's making assumptions that he shouldn't, but the private school thing kind of makes him feel better. Like he doesn't have to worry too much, like the kid's not going to take advantage of Kurt or anything. So, overall, it's not like Burt has a reason to be concerned. 

But he is, kind of. It's hard to say just why, but something seems... off. And maybe he's just being overprotective; probably he's just being overprotective. But just knowing that isn't enough to make him feel any better about the situation.

Not that standing at the top of the stairs and eavesdropping on Kurt's conversation is going to end particularly well for any of them, but he figures he gets to do it at least the once. He doesn't get involved in Kurt's personal life too much; he can be forgiven this one little slip-up.

"Oh, wow," Blaine says, his voice echoing weirdly up to the top of the stairs. It's hard for Burt to get a read on the tone of his voice, but at least he doesn't sound like he and Kurt are doing anything... strenuous. 

"It was my mom's," Kurt says, and no, they're not doing anything. And Burt should get back to the couch now, except that he can't. Not when Kurt talks about Annie in that tone of voice. Even after all these years, it kind of freezes him up inside. "She made it, when she was a little kid. Actually, she made two of them. One for her best friend, and one for herself. So they wouldn't have to be apart." 

It's Annie's doll, Burt realizes. The one she held on to for years, right up until the very end, when she gave it to Kurt and told him to look after it for her. To keep it safe. Kurt usually keeps it hidden away in one of his drawers, out of sight; Burt's kind of surprised that he's actually showing it to someone. He's usually so careful about things like this.

"Wow," Blaine says again, and there's nothing bad about the way he says it, per se, but Burt still can't shake the feeling that something funny is going on.

Apparently, Kurt feels the same way, because he asks, "What is it, Blaine?" in this really gentle way.

"Just..." There's a pause; Burt can't help but wonder what Blaine's doing right now. If he's looking at Kurt, or maybe the doll -- if he's even holding the doll, if Kurt actually trusted him with this most precious of memories. "My dad had one of these," Blaine says, so soft that Burt has to strain to hear it. "A friend of his, back -- back where he grew up. She made it for him." He laughs, and it sounds a little nervous. "That's weird, isn't it? That your mom and my dad both had dolls like this? I guess it must have been a thing back then. Like friendship bracelets."

"Maybe," Kurt says, but he sounds thoughtful, and Burt already knows what his son's thinking, because he's kind of thinking it too. And he's pretty sure Blaine's thinking it, whether or not he wants to admit it. "Does he still have it?" Kurt asks. "The doll, I mean. Does your dad still have it?"

Blaine lets out another little nervous laugh. "Like I said, we moved around a lot when I was younger," he says. "I guess it just... got lost in the shuffle. My dad was pretty upset about it, though. We lost a lot of stuff, that time, but that was the thing that really got to him. Losing that doll."

"I'm sorry," Kurt says, quietly. 

There's a pause, and then Blaine says, "Okay, but I have to ask: What is it with you and glass dogs?" and he's so blatantly changing the subject that even Burt cringes a little bit. 

But Kurt lets him get away with it, laughing and saying, "What? There's only two of them. And anyway, they're _vintage_ ," and Burt creeps away from the door before he gets caught listening to a conversation that he honestly couldn't care less about. Anyway, he figures he's already learned enough for one night.

_That's weird, isn't it? That your mom and my dad both had dolls like this?_

_Weird_ kind of always followed Annie around, though. Before Burt knew her, and then right up until the day she was gone. And maybe it had never really stopped. Maybe she'd just passed it on to the rest of her family.

Burt kind of always figured he'd have to keep an eye on Kurt's boyfriends, no matter what they were like. He thinks maybe he's gonna have to watch this Blaine kid extra close. 

 

*

 

He does his best to keep David in his peripheral vision throughout the course of the lecture, not watching him in an overt manner, but... aware of him, where he's sitting, when he shifts in his seat or moves his arms or turns his head. It's not difficult; part of him almost feels that David wants to be seen, that he might even be watching Ben just as Ben as watching him. It's a curious notion, probably more a figment of Ben's paranoia than anything else, but still. It's something to consider. After all, there's no point in exposing himself or Blaine to any unnecessary danger.

Not, of course, that he thinks a high school student could honestly be a danger to him.

Then again, Ethan was only twelve when he --

Ben cuts that train of thought off before he can get too lost in it, and turns his attention back to the lecture. 

"Then, too, there is the Valenzetti Equation, as brought to the public's attention by Gary Troup's novel of the same name. Now although the novel was almost immediately taken out of circulation by the publisher, it did receive some attention when --"

"It's not a novel." 

There's a rustle at the interruption, and Ben turns to look back at the rear of the auditorium, trying to find the girl who'd spoken. If he cranes his neck, he can just barely see --

"I'm sorry," the lecturer says, blinking up at the audience, apparently a little put out at being disturbed. "Who are you?"

"Brittany S. Pierce," the girl says, standing. She's a McKinley student, one of Coach Sylvester's Cheerios; Ben recognizes the uniform and the remarkably tight ponytail. "And it's not a novel. See, novels are books about made-up people, like Winnie the Pooh or Henry the Eighth. So The Valenzetti Equation can't be a novel, because _Enzo Valenzetti_ was real."

There's a little laughter from the audience at that, and a boy sitting next to her (Abrams, Ben thinks -- Artie Abrams, from Ben's precalculus class) tugs Brittany down to whisper something in her ear. "Wait," she says, a little too loud. "Henry the Eighth was a real guy? But then what about the --"

"Yes, Brittany," the facilitator, one Dr. Muller, says, standing up. "I'm afraid there's a fundamental misconception at work here; you see, it is possible for an author to write a work of fiction about a person who actually existed. As long as the events in the book never actually happened, which is the case with Troup's book on Valenzetti, then --"

"But how do you know?" Brittany asks, apparently not in the least bit dissuaded; Ben can't help but be a little impressed by her tenacity.

Dr. Muller tilts his head to the side, studying her. "I beg your pardon?"

"How do you know that it never actually happened?" she repeats. 

"Well," Dr. Muller says, looking back at the lecturer; he seems a little bemused, but not particularly annoyed. "While there isn't _much_ scholarship on the personal life of Enzo Valenzetti, it's safe to say that the events as described in Troup's book are not, shall we say, quite consistent with what we do know, implying that --"

"But how do you know what's in the book?" Brittany asks, ignoring Artie's attempt to pull her back into her seat. "I mean, since someone bought all the copies and hid them away as soon as the book came out, and it was never republished, so no one actually knows what's in it. So how do you know it's fiction if you never read it?"

Dr. Muller seems as though he's about to speak for a moment, but then he hesitates, glancing back at the lecturer. They have what appears to be a very intense moment of silent communication, and then Dr. Muller smiles up at Brittany. "Fair enough," he says. "Well. Given the lack of empirical data about what Gary Troup did or did not write about the Valenzetti Equation, why don't we just... move along then, Carl? Possibly to the section about the 2012 phenomenon? Unless Miss Pierce has an objection that, of course."

"That movie sucked," Brittany says, still standing and looking down at the stage. "It was too long and all they did was blow stuff up."

"Well, then," Dr. Muller says. "I'm sure you won't mind if Carl takes the time to go slightly more in-depth on the flaws of 2012 theory in general. Carl?"

"Yes," the lecturer says, as Brittany is finally pulled back into her seat. "Yes. Of course. 2012." He clears his throat. "Well. The problems with the various doomsday scenarios predicted around the end of the Mesoamerican Long Calendar are, if you'll pardon the pun, quite _numerous_ , and --"

Ben tunes him out, allowing himself one last glance over his shoulder at Miss Brittany S. Pierce. He's not particularly interested in finding out how Muller knows about the contents of _The Valenzetti Equation_ ; yes, all known copies of the book were purchased by the Hanso foundation, but that doesn't necessarily imply that no one has ever read it. It's simply a matter of knowing the right people, which Muller no doubt does. Brittany, on the other hand...

Ben has been teaching for a decade now, long enough to get a feel for what his students are interested in, what engages them. He has yet to meet anyone under the age of forty who would recognize the name _Enzo Valenzetti_ , let alone show the slightest bit of interest in him. 

Perhaps Karofsky isn't the student that Ben should be paying attention to right now. Perhaps it's someone else entirely.

And yet. 

Ben glances sideways at Karofsky, just to check on him, and catches Karofsky looking back. Just for a split second, and then he turns his attention back to the stage, but it’s enough to make Ben’s blood run cold. 

And it’s possible, of course it’s possible, that Karofsky wasn’t actually looking at him, but past him. After all, Ben is directly between David and Brittany; if he was watching her (and weren’t they all, really?), then of course it might look like he was watching Ben instead. It’s possible that it’s just a simple misunderstanding. Of course it’s possible.

But judging by the hunch of David’s shoulders and the spreading flush on the back of his neck, it is exceedingly unlikely. 

Which presents several problems.

Ben has no naive beliefs about the innate purity and goodness of children. He saw what became of Ethan when he joined the Others; the boy was a killer by the age of twelve. But Ethan wasn’t acting alone when he killed the French woman; he was following orders. It seems likely, too likely, that Karofsky is doing the same; that he hasn’t singled Ben out of his own volition, but has been pushed into doing so. Someone is pulling the strings; someone is guiding him. Someone has found Ben and his son.

It wouldn’t be the first time that something like this has happened, of course. For the last nine years, they’ve been in a slow flight, from one end of the country to the other. It’s been some time, of course, and Ben had rather hoped that Charles had finally lost interest in them. Apparently, he was wrong. Which he can cope with, if it comes down to it. Again, this is not the first time.

But to use _children_ in this way. And not just David Karofsky, but Kurt Hummel as well (because it’s quite obvious that Karofsky’s targeting of a boy so much like Ben’s own son could not have been on accident; there had to have been at least some design to it). It sparks something in Ben, something angry and sharp. There are rules, even off the Island. There are always rules. If Charles is determined to break them now...

Ben takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax. It’ll do him no good to act in haste; in fact, that’s almost certainly what Charles wants. He won’t lash out; he won’t act impulsively. Impatience was always Ethan’s flaw, never his. Ben has always known when to let things unfold, when to hold back until the timing is absolutely right.

He will not be rushed in this. He will take his time.

 

*

 

He's running out of time. 

_We're on a deadline here, David_ , his dad had told him, and Dave didn't totally know what that meant, but he had a pretty good idea. If they couldn't get to Anderson soon, someone else would be sent in to take over, and his dad would have to go back. Back to that _place_ , the place he'd hated, the place that had ruined all of their lives. His dad would go back and it'd be just Dave and his mom again, and he couldn't do that, he couldn't take care of her on his own. He had to do something.

_All I need to do is talk to him, David, but I need a reason. You've got to give me a reason to go in there and talk to him. Alone._

Dave hunches his shoulders up against the cold and watches Anderson talk to other people, and this is the problem. Because he needs to get Anderson alone for this to work, and he thought he could do it after the lecture, that when he checked in for his five extra credit points, he could maybe pull Anderson aside, maybe say something about his grades and how he just needed a little help or maybe he’d come up with something else, maybe he could say it wasn’t school, but _personal_ , and if Anderson would just talk to his dad with him -- But he can’t say anything, is the problem, because it’s like the whole freaking school is at this lecture. Even Mike Chang, who’s already at 105% in like all his classes. Even cheerleader Brittany, who’s failed pre-Algebra twice now and probably didn’t understand a damn thing that was being said (although, given that Valenzetti thing she was talking about, maybe she understands more than she’s letting on). And now they’re standing around, with that wheelchair kid and his vampire ex-girlfriend, the four of them all talking with Anderson like they actually care about this shit, and Dave knows he needs to find some way of prying Anderson away from them, but he can’t quite think --

And then that fucking substitute is walking up to them, and she stops for just a second and looks directly at Dave, still with that _I know who you are_ look, and he pulls back into the shadows immediately, trying not to panic. She’s probably just trying to talk to the glee kids or something. She probably doesn’t even care about Anderson.

All he has to do is wait.

 

*

 

She waits until Brittany’s pushed Artie to his car, waits until Mike’s held Tina’s door for her and then closed it behind her, waits until it’s just the two of them before she slips her arm into Ben’s and starts steering him towards his car. He glances at her -- not alarmed or angry, just... bemused. She was hoping to have him more unsettled by now, but apparently Widmore wasn’t kidding -- this guy’s a tough nut to crack. 

“Hey,” she says, smiling at him; he raises his eyebrow in response. “I’ve been meaning to ask you -- is Blaine still working on that translation project? You know, taking _Rent_ back into the ‘language of opera?’ He was really psyched about it when I talked to him, but you know how kids are. They lose interest in these things.” She pauses. "Of course, so do I, so."

“Yes,” Ben says, quietly. He’s such a meek guy, is the thing, with his quiet voice and his perfect manners. Holly’d almost think he was harmless, if she didn’t know for a fact that the hand jammed into his pocket was currently wrapped around that collapsible baton of his. “Yes, they certainly can. But Blaine hasn’t lost interest in his translation; he... He was working on it just the other day, in fact.”

“Awesome,” Holly says, and doesn’t ask _where_ he was when he was working at it, if he was maybe sitting in the waiting room outside the hospital’s radiology department, trying to keep himself busy while his father went through a whole bunch of tests. It’s not that she _can’t_ \-- she’s got cart blanche to tell Ben whatever, whenever, if she thinks it’ll win him over. But even she knows the value of holding things back, on occasion. The value of teasing. “I always thought that was so cool, you know, that he was working on something like that. I mean, most kids, they’re just marking time, you know? They’re not really _engaged_ in what they’re learning. But Blaine’s really... He’s really passionate about these things.” Ben smiles, just faintly, and Holly squeezes his arm, pushing. “But I guess that’s what happens when your dad’s a teacher, right?”

Ben just shrugs, his face shifting back into neutral. Apparently, flattery really won’t get her anywhere. Good to know. “Blaine is... I try not to take too much credit for Blaine,” Ben says, simply. “He’s always been exceptional. It’s simply his nature.”

Holly laughs, lightly, and squeezes his arm again. “You really are too cute,” she says, grinning at him. The look he gives her at that is slightly puzzled. “Seriously, it’s adorable. It’s like he’s your whole world, the way you talk about him.”

“He’s my son,” Ben says, as if that explains everything. And for him, it probably does. 

That’s either going to make this easier for Holly, or a whole lot harder. 

She takes a deep breath, then stops walking, waits for Ben to stop and look back at her before she starts rummaging through her purse. “So listen, I get that this is a little... I don’t know, presumptuous?” She glances up at Ben, then back down at her purse, pushes her pepper spray out of the way, and then pulls out the envelope she was looking for. “But a friend of mine is doing _Rent_ at the Community Playhouse, and I thought maybe it might... you know. Inspire Blaine. To be exceptional.” She hands the envelope over. “There’s two tickets for Saturday’s show in there, in case you wanted to go with him. Since you two are so close and all, I thought --”

“That’s very kind of you,” Ben says, although he doesn’t take the tickets. “But really, there’s no need to --”

“Or,” she says, and takes his arm again, because it’s just them and David Karofsky in this parking lot now, and she’s not holding still for any longer than she has to. “You could let Blaine go with Kurt Hummel, since I saw the two of them talking when he came to pick you up the other day. And I’m pretty sure Kurt’s majorly into Broadway, and I’m _very_ sure that Kurt’s massively into your son, and it would be like the coolest first date ever and you would be the coolest dad ever for letting them do that.” She studies his profile for a moment, then adds, “And then maybe you’d be free for the night, and you and I could grab a beer or something.”

Ben raises his eyebrow, but he doesn’t pull away. “Could we?” he asks.

Holly ducks her head; she’s not really embarrassed (hell, she’s been more forward, with less reason), but it seems the thing to do. “Well. Not that it has to turn into a _thing_... not that it couldn’t turn into a thing, just...” She pauses, keeps her head hanging for a beat longer, then looks up. “Look,” she says. “It’s... It’s possible that my job here at McKinley isn’t going to be just a part-time thing. Which means that I’m replacing Will Schuester, which means that I’m kind of not going to be everyone’s favorite for that long. And yeah, Principal Sue likes me, but since everyone else hates her, it’s kind of the equivalent of painting a big old target on my back. And my front. And pretty much everywhere else, too. I could _really_ use a friend right now, Ben. And you’re -- I mean, everyone says you’re a pretty levelheaded guy. Above the drama, you know? So maybe if people saw that you’d be willing to give me a chance...”

“Without knowing that you bribed me with _Rent_ tickets for my son,” Ben adds, quietly.

Holly laughs, ducks her head again. “Yeah, I was kind of hoping that you’d keep that part on the down-low. I mean, community theatre tickets don’t come cheap, and I don’t want everyone beating down my door trying to get them. I’m just a substitute, Ben. I’m not exactly made of money.”

“And here I thought substitute teaching was so lucrative,” Ben says. It’s hard as hell to get a read on him going by his voice or his facial expressions; it’s like his only mode is deadpan. Holly’s not used to working this hard to figure a guy out. But then, he’s been on the run a long time. He’s probably had some practice. “All right,” Ben says, finally, pulling away as they reach his car. “I suppose one drink can’t hurt. Saturday night? Around seven?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she says, grinning. Ben just furrows his brow at her. “It’s kind of my catch phrase. Anyway. I’ll... see you tomorrow. At work.”

He nods, finally plucking the envelope with the tickets from her outstretched hand. “Goodnight, Miss Holliday,” he says, with a little nod. Then he’s unlocking his car, opening the door; Holly waits until he’s safely in and the door is shut behind him before she turns and walks back to her own vehicle. 

Which, conveniently enough, is the one that David Karofsky is currently lurking behind.

“And that’s how it’s done, my friend,” she murmurs, giving him a wink before climbing in and revving the engine. It’s kind of above and beyond what she should be doing (namely ignoring the crap out of him while simultaneously preventing him from getting within fifty feet of Ben or Blaine Anderson), but she can’t resist. Besides, she’s pretty sure it’ll be okay. Because she is legitimately awesome at this whole spying and seducing business.

She can’t wait to call Widmore and spill all the details.


	6. Covert Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burt has a box of old memories. Finn has doubts. So does Karofsky. Rachel does, too, but perhaps not as many as she should. And all Ben really wants is a distraction.

He waits up for a while after Kurt's gone to bed, waits until everything's silent and he's sure that Kurt's asleep before he starts digging through his closet, looking for that old shoebox. It's in the back, buried behind old dress shoes and a pair of Annie's heels that Burt never could bring himself to give to charity; dusty and half-forgotten, wedged into the corner of the closet. When Burt picks it up, a spider skitters across the lid and runs over the back of his hand, and he swears under his breath, dropping the box in his haste to just get the damn thing off him. Pictures and pamphlets and bits of detritus tumble onto the floor of the closet, and Burt groans. For half a second, he's tempted to just leave it all there and go to bed.

But he can't, is the thing. He's gotta know. 

Sighing, he shifts into a more comfortable position on the floor of the closet, trying to ignore the tie rack hanging right over his head (when the hell did he get so many ties, anyway?), and starts scooping things up and into the box. 

A pamphlet on _Electromagnetic Energy and You!_ A faded Apollo Bar Wrapper, carefully pressed flat and saved for no apparent reason. A child's drawing of what looks like some kind of a bear -- polar bear, maybe, or maybe she just never colored it in. Some kind of funny patch, like a badge for a Girl Scout uniform, with the word DHARMA on it. Nothing that weird, really, just the standard junk that kids hang on to, the kind of stuff that most people just throw away and forget about. Except Annie held on to it, and now Burt's keeping it for her, because. Because even junk starts to become meaningful if you hold on to it long enough. 

And there, face down on a bare patch of carpet, is the picture that Burt was looking for. There aren't a lot of pictures of Annie from back when she was a kid, but there is this one -- Annie sitting on a swingset, her brownish-blonde hair braided into pigtails, grinning for the camera. There's a boy on the swing next to hers; he's not smiling, barely even looking at the camera. His face is turned a little sideways, his attention on Annie; the sunlight is reflecting off the lenses of his glasses, so it's hard for Burt to get a really good idea of what he looked like then. 

Let alone what he would look like now.

But he can almost see it anyway, if he thinks about it. If he looks long enough, hard enough, he can see it in the height of the boy's forehead, the way his chin recedes just a little bit, his face kind of on the longish side and his hair still that same ash-brown. 

_Mr. Hummel? Hi, I'm Ben Anderson. Blaine's dad. Is he --_

But what it really is, Burt thinks, is the way the kid's not looking at the camera, really. The way he's so obviously, almost painfully aware of the girl sitting next to him, kind of longing and also kind of grateful, like he wishes he could reach out but already knows he's got a good thing going by breathing the same air as her and doesn't want to screw that up. It's not exactly the same look Ben Anderson had on his face when his son came up from Kurt's room, the two boys grinning and talking a mile a minute, their words tumbling over each other like they had to say everything possible before Blaine went home. Nor is it quite the same as the look Blaine gave Kurt right before he left, although that look _definitely_ came close. But it's... 

Well. It's something.

_I felt bad for leaving him behind_ , Annie used to say, tracing her fingers over the picture. _Not like it was up to me, or that I could help it, but I just... He seemed like he needed someone to take care of him, and I guess I just thought..._ And she'd laugh, a little, shake her head. _I mean, I was twelve when we... when we moved. I wasn't really taking care of anything. Still, though. I always wondered what happened to him, after I was gone. If he was going to be okay without me._

And honestly, he seems okay enough to Burt. He's got a good job, and it seems like he's raising his son pretty well. Kurt's sure taken a shine to the both of them, and he's usually a pretty decent judge of character. So it looks like he came out just fine. 

Except, if he _is_ that kid, if Annie knew him way back when...

She never talked about it much, her childhood. _Him_ , sure. She'd talk about him sometimes, when she was particularly nostalgic. But most of the time, it was like her life didn't start until she was thirteen. Except for right at the end, right when they knew there was no point in trying to keep her going anymore, and then everything she said was so totally off the rails that Burt would have thought it was just the drugs talking, all the painkillers and everything, messing with her head. But he couldn't believe that, not really. He knew how she was when she had too much in her system, he knew that look in her eyes. And she'd never, ever looked like that when she talked about her childhood, her _real_ childhood. Back when she lived on that island. Back when she knew Ben.

"Figures he wouldn't find us until after you left," Burt mutters, eyes fixed on the girl in the picture. "You know, you could help me out a little here. 'Cause honestly? I got no clue what the hell I'm doing." But she doesn't give him a sign, doesn't so much as blink. 

Of course she doesn't. Why would she? She's dead. And dead is dead.

"I miss you, Annie," he says, and carefully tucks the picture back in the box, closing the lid.

 

*

 

"Finn," Kurt huffs, closing his locker firmly before Finn can get more than a quick glimpse of the picture hanging on the inside of the door. It's still enough time for Finn to see the navy blazer and the striped tie, and okay, he doesn't know as much about clothes as Kurt does, but he doesn't have to be an expert to know that that's a Dalton blazer and a Dalton tie. "We are not talking about this."

"Why not?" Finn asks, turning when Kurt does, matching strides with him when Kurt hikes his bag up higher on his shoulder and starts hurrying away. "Look, if he's just this random guy you're friends with now, then what's the problem? How come you can't just tell me the truth?"

"Because there's nothing to tell," Kurt shoots back, glaring at him out of the corner of his eye. "How come you don't tell me every time you go over to Mike's to play video games? You don't, because A -- I wouldn't care, and B -- it's none of my business. This isn't any different."

"Yes, it is," Finn says, dodging a clump of giggling girls. "It's totally different."

This time, Kurt's glare is full-force, enough to stop Finn dead in his tracks. "Why?"

Finn's throat goes suddenly, inexplicably dry. "Why what?"

"Why is it different?" And it's weird, because it's not like Kurt moves in or anything, but Finn still feels the strangest urge to start backing away. It's that scary cold glare thing, like Quinn does. Rachel's not as good at it, maybe because it's easier with light eyes.

"Just..." Finn sputters a little bit and leans back, just a little bit. "Just it is, that's all."

"Nothing 'just is,' Finn," Kurt says. "Why is it different? Is it because I'm gay and he's a guy? Is it because he's not _just_ a guy, but an actual gay guy, so you're just going to go ahead and _assume_ that we're --"

"I'm not assuming anything!" Finn gets a little too loud, and Kurt gives him a quelling look before spinning on his heel and launching himself down the hallway. Finn has to stretch his steps to catch up with him; it's a good thing Kurt hasn't gotten any taller recently, or he might have had to run. "Look, it's not that that he's gay or you're gay, it's just -- Mike goes to school here. He's part of the glee club. He's one of us. This Blaine kid, he -- I mean, he goes to Dalton."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Exactly, Finn. He goes to _Dalton_. Which is not exactly a hotbed of espionage and terror." 

Finn pauses and blinks, because he actually kind of hadn't thought of that. He kind of hadn't thought of that at all. 

"Look, Finn, I know we haven't always had the best experiences with students from other schools," Kurt says, his face softening a little bit. "I was ready to beat Jesse up, too. I remember what that was like. But Jesse was part of Vocal Adrenaline, a show choir with a long and storied tradition of blackmail, treachery, and a love of pyrotechnics that puts Principal Sue to shame. Blaine's a _Warbler_. All they do is wear ties and sing at nursing homes and... you know. Rescuing kittens in their spare time, or whatever. If anything, Blaine's the one who should be suspicious of me. I'm the one who was spying, not him. If anyone's the Jesse St. James here, it's me. Under the circumstances, he's been shockingly nice."

And the thing is, Finn kind of doesn't even feel like arguing anymore, because everything that Kurt's saying actually sort of makes sense. But he's pretty sure that Rachel wouldn't see it that way, and he still has to report back to her. And then also, he _is_ kind of committed. So he has to keep struggling on. "Yeah, but... I mean, why would he do that? Be nice to you? When you spied on him?"

Kurt just shrugs. "Why were we so nice to Jesse, even when we all knew what he was up to?" he asks, and Finn frowns, because he still doesn't really know the answer to that one. "Because we wanted to give him a chance to prove us wrong. It didn't work out with Jesse, but with me and Blaine, it's different. Or it could be, anyway. I'd certainly like to try." 

Which almost sounds like Kurt is maybe a little more seduced than he's willing to admit to. Or maybe he's trying to seduce Blaine. Or something. Finn's pretty sure he should bring that up; the problem is doing it without Kurt getting mad and killing him, and he's still pondering that when Kurt sighs, adjusts his bag, and starts walking again. 

"Look, Finn, I get it," Kurt says, as Finn once again struggles to catch up. Seriously, Kurt's legs are _unfair_ sometimes. "What happened to Rachel was upsetting for all of us, and I understand that it's hard to let go of that. But if I want to spend time with anyone who's... with anyone like me, then I'm going to have to cast my net a little wider than the rest of you. Because it's not like I've really got a lot of options here."

Which is true, and also kind of depressing. Like, Finn hasn't had the most girlfriends, but he's had a few, and they've been pretty scary but also pretty awesome. But if he were at a school without girls, then he wouldn't have any girlfriends, and that would suck. And yeah, there are boys at McKinley. But none of them are gay boys, so as far as Kurt's concerned, none of them really count. And so maybe it's not so much that Kurt wants to have Blaine for his boyfriend. Maybe it's just that he likes knowing that he _could_ want that, if he wanted to. 

"Yeah," he says, and after a few seconds, he reaches out to pat at Kurt's shoulder. Kurt doesn't shrug him off, which is pretty cool, so he sort of lets his hand rest there for a second.

Which is when Karofsky sees them, and shouts out, "Get a room, homos!" and Finn snatches his hand away from Kurt's shoulder like he's been burnt.

Kurt just shakes his head, his hand tightening around the strap of his bag until the knuckles go all the way white. "And then there's that," he mutters, turning to hurry off down the hallway again.

Finn thinks about just letting him go for a second, or about maybe going and kicking the crap out of Karofsky, but then he thinks about Kurt not having anyone to spend time with, and he does look kind of lonely, even if his head is high and he's giving everyone that "Don't even _think_ about talking to me" look, and maybe Finn's not someone that Kurt can look to as a potential boyfriend anymore, but at least he's someone to talk to. And Kurt needs that, too. He needs someone to talk to.

So Finn takes a few long steps and catches up to Kurt again. "So," he says, trying to sound casual, like he totally doesn't care that Karofsky just called him gay in front of pretty much the entire school. "But this Blaine dude." Because that's what they were talking about before, and Finn can't really think of a new topic that fast. And anyway, maybe he could tell Kurt that he kind of gets it now and then Kurt would feel better about it all.

But Kurt just gives him a disbelieving look, and starts walking _even faster_ , and this time Finn really does have to jog to keep up.

 

*

 

He's still laughing with Azimio about the look on Hudson's face as the two of them walk down the hall together (not thinking about the pinched, tight expression that Hummel had worn, or the way his shoulders had hunched reflexively, like bracing for a blow), and it's a good feeling. Maybe it's queer or something, but he kind of likes having an audience, kind of likes it when people laugh and then look guilty. Likes it when Azimio high-fives him and says "Not bad." It does something for him. Makes him forget about things for a little bit.

Then Azimio peels off to head to his own class and Dave turns the corner and finds himself face-to-face with Mr. Anderson for the first time pretty much ever. 

And it's the weirdest fucking thing, because he knows he could just keep going, push past or hell, even just steamroller the dude, but then he looks down at Mr. Anderson's eyes and he just can't. It's like everything inside him just freezes. 

"David," Mr. Anderson says, calmly. His hands are jammed in his pockets and he looks totally relaxed, like he hasn't figured out that Dave's about five times his size. Like he doesn't know that Dave could break him in half if he wanted to. "I heard what you said just now. To Mr. Hudson and Mr. Hummel. Tell me, David, is that really the sort of language you're supposed to use in a school environment?"

"Yeah," Dave says, and sort of fakes a laugh. Because he should be laughing, because this is stupid -- this nerdy little guy, trying to yell at him about his _language_. He shouldn't feeling a little sweaty, a little nervous. His heart shouldn't be going this fast. "Sure. I mean, we use it in bio all the time, right? _Homo Sapiens. Homo Erectus._ "

He glances over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Azimio there to laugh with him. Because that was good -- _homo erectus_. He could use that one again. But Azimio's not there; it's just him and Mr. Anderson, and for some reason, that's really kind of freaking him out.

"Clever," Mr. Anderson says, and his voice is so mild, so calm, that it's almost hard for Dave to believe that he's being sarcastic. "I have to say, David, I'm surprised at you. You're obviously not unintelligent. So I can't understand why you're failing my class."

Dave tries to laugh again, but it sticks in his throat. "I'm not failing," he says, trying to bluff it out. Because he's not, or at least he wasn't, anyway. He wasn't doing great, maybe, but he was still passing. He was still --

Mr. Anderson just shakes his head. "David, your last test score was a fifty-three. You haven't turned in an assignment since the first week of October. And you've yet to attempt any sort of extra credit work, even when I make it ridiculously simple for you. You're failing calculus. I’m afraid I’m going to have to have a word with Coach Beiste about revoking your football eligibility for the rest of the semester."

"You... You can't do that." He tries to say it calm, like he believes it, but the truth is that part of him kind of feels like... Like Mr. Anderson can do anything, if he wants to. That he could do anything to _Dave_ if he wanted to. It's just so... He's just so _calm_. "I was there at the extra credit thing. That lecture? I was totally there."

"Were you?" And Mr. Anderson pulls a notebook out from under his arm like he's been waiting for this, flips it open and starts running his finger down the page, like he's checking for something. "Are you sure? Because your name's not on the list."

"But I --" And the thing is, he should be happy about this. Because this is what his dad wants him to do, what he _needs_ to do. But he didn't think it would feel like this, is the thing. He didn't think he'd feel so... trapped. "I was there! Only you were -- I didn't want to --"

"David," Mr. Anderson says, and he almost sounds pitying, but Dave's sure it's just an act, sure he's enjoying every last second of this, and for a second, it just seems so unfair. "You only had to do one thing at that lecture, and that was to report in to me. You failed to follow the rules. Now I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. Until you bring your grades up, you will remain ineligible for football. I would suggest that, starting immediately, you spend less time looking for excuses to harass Kurt Hummel, and more time concentrating on your schoolwork."

And the thing is, that's what Dave wants to do. At least right now it is. But he can't. Because it's working -- Mr. Anderson just flat-out told him it was -- and even if Dave wanted to stop, he can't anymore. "Is that what this is about?" he asks, voice coming out rougher, angrier. And maybe he's mad at Mr. Anderson and maybe he's not, but Mr. Anderson's the one in front of him, so Mr. Anderson's the one who gets to hear it. "Just because I'm not cool with your son's little _boyfriend_ fagging up the --"

Mr. Anderson doesn't move a muscle -- his face doesn't change, his fists don't clench, nothing, but something shifts in the air between them, and Dave goes from being nervous to being too scared to get another word out. "I suggest that you refrain from completing that sentence," Mr. Anderson says, his voice still pleasant, and a shiver goes down Dave's spine. "Keep your head down, get your work done, and stay away from Kurt Hummel, and you'll be back on the team before you know it. And you and I won't have to have any more of these unpleasant conversations."

He turns and walks away from Dave without waiting for a reply. And it's weird, because the moment those eyes are off him, it's like Dave can breathe again. A little bit, anyway, enough to gather his nerve and ask "Oh yeah? And what if I don't?"

Mr. Anderson just shrugs and keeps walking. "That, David, would be an extremely unwise decision to make," he says, and then turns left down the hallway, and vanishes. 

Dave looks left, looks right, and when he doesn't see anyone nearby, he sags against the wall and tries to calm down. It occurs to him, just a little too late, that he never even considered the idea that Anderson would do anything other than wait for Dave to set some kind of trap for him and then waltz right into it. He never thought that Anderson might start fighting back.

It should probably make things easier, the idea that this guy could easily be as dangerous as anyone from the Island.

Somehow, it doesn't.

 

*

 

Rachel waits, tucked into the alcove by the drinking fountain, until Karofsky finally straightens up, pushes away from the wall, and starts heading off towards his next class. Perhaps it's only because she hadn't actually been planning on starting her campaign of espionage until later in the day, leaving her somewhat unprepared for this early opportunity, but she's starting to feel just a little out of her depth. 

Not, of course, that she is incapable of handling another Jesse traitor scenario. She's perfectly capable; in fact, the only reason that Jesse was successful with her was the fact that he was being guided by her birth mother, who obviously had a certain insight into Rachel's vulnerabilities given their basic resemblance to one another. Then, too, she'd had been more than a little fragile after Finn's post-Quinn confusion had led him to put their budding romance on hiatus -- not that she blames him, of course, and not that she ever really doubted the inevitability of their love. But it had been a troubled time, and she had been distracted, inattentive. It wouldn't happen again. Not on her watch. And certainly not to Kurt.

It's just that, given the conversation she's just overheard, she has to wonder if maybe that's not the only thing that could happen to Kurt.

_I would suggest that, starting immediately, you spend less time looking for excuses to harass Kurt Hummel._

Kurt has always been singled out a little more than the rest of them, and not in a good way. But it’s been different, lately. Puck's behaving himself, the hockey team isn't as aggressive as they used to be, and most of the football players are still too intimidated by Coach Beiste to act out. But Karofsky hasn't stopped. If anything, he's gotten worse. And, apart from the odd slushie incident here or there or his occasional harassment of Finn, all of that bad behavior has been directed towards one person. 

Namely, Kurt.

Honestly, it's a wonder Rachel didn't figure this out sooner. Although she supposes it would be different if Kurt weren't so proud, if he'd just give them a chance to help instead of trying to --

The bell rings, startling her so much that she bangs her hip on the drinking fountain when she jumps. She's late for World History. Rachel Berry is never late for anything -- barring, of course, unfortunate slushie and/or egg-related emergencies. Clearly, this is something she's going to have to work on, balancing spying with schoolwork. But that's a project for later. Right now, she's got to hurry.

Rachel makes it approximately halfway down the hall before finding her steps slowing just outside one of the teachers' offices. The plaque outside reads _Anderson, B_. Rachel's done her homework; she knows exactly whose office she's standing outside. And the door is slightly ajar, just a little. Like he's stepped out for a moment. Rachel couldn't have asked for a better opportunity. If she weren’t already late for class, she wouldn’t even hesitate to --

But, really, why should she hesitate at all? It’s been at least two weeks since the last time she got slushied; it wouldn’t be the least bit unbelievable for her to claim that it had happened again. She has a change of clothing in her locker; all the glee club kids do. If she changed, maybe dampened down her hair a bit, everyone would assume it was just another Code Red and leave it at that. She could probably even scoop a little bit of colored ice out of the drainage tray of the slushie machine, just a tiny bit, for verisimilitude.

Anyway, she's already late. She might as well go for the gusto. After all, Rachel Berry is not the sort of girl to do anything halfway. Not even tardiness.

"Hello?" She knocks on her way in, pushing the door all the way open. "Mr. Anderson?" But the office is empty, the overhead lights turned off; if it weren't for the illumination coming in from the hallway and one lamp on the desk, Rachel wouldn't be able to see at all. As it is, everything is shadowed and sinister, enough to make Rachel's breath catch a little bit as she creeps into the room. 

(But not enough to make her stop. After all, espionage isn't meant to be comfortable. The thrill of danger is at least half the point.)

She moves instinctively towards the desk, towards the light. There's a grade book spread out on the desk blotter, a notebook next to it, open to a list of names -- _Abrams, Austen, ben Israel, Chang, Cooper, Cortez, Dawson_... Some of the names have been struck out with thick, black lines, probably students who've already been given their extra credit points. No doubt, many of her classmates would be highly interested in this little book. But Rachel has more important work to do. 

She moves on.

There are several framed photographs surrounding the blotter, all of them featuring a dark-haired boy in various stages of childhood and late adolescence. She picks one up, studies it. The boy is wearing a Dalton uniform -- blue blazer, striped tie -- and has his hair gelled down until it looks shiny and hard to the touch. He's smiling for the camera, but only a little, and there's something strange in his expression. It's not cocky, not like Rachel would have expected from the private school version of Jesse St. James. If anything, he looks... nervous. Unsure of himself. 

Which could be charming, in its own way, and it might very well be something that Kurt is partial to. He does seem to gravitate to the boys who need saving. Still, it’s hard to imagine anyone like that willingly engaging in a scheme to break Kurt’s heart and leave him as so much chum for the sharks of McKinley, and Rachel has to wonder...

"It's a good picture," Mr. Anderson says, conversationally, and Rachel jumps again, this time banging her hip against the edge of the desk (she's really going to have to ice that hip when she gets home). Mr. Anderson steps forward, smiling at her, and Rachel stays frozen to the spot. He gently tugs the photo out of her clutching hands, sets it down, picks up another, and passes it over. "But I prefer this one."

Rachel bites her lip, studying Mr. Anderson a little nervously before finally turning to the picture. It's the same boy -- well, she thinks it’s the same boy, anyway. But he’s not alone this time. He’s surrounded by other boys, all of them in the Dalton uniform, arms slung around each other’s shoulders and wide grins on their faces. Even the boy from the first photograph (if it is the same boy), is smiling -- not tentative or uncertain this time, but grinning so broadly that his eyes are scrunched shut, his whole face transformed. And again, it’s almost charming -- there’s something so adorably clueless about a boy who doesn’t know his best angles -- but it just doesn’t seem _calculated_ , and that’s bothering Rachel. Because if it’s not calculated, then...

"It's amazing, the difference a few months can make," Mr. Anderson says, taking the picture back. He studies it for a few moments before carefully, almost reverently returning it to the desk.

"Mr. Anderson," Rachel says, trying not to twist her hands together nervously when he glances up at her. She can second-guess herself later; right now, she needs to make her excuses and get out before Mr. Anderson can get her kicked off the glee club. He seems to have a penchant for things like that. "I am really sorry for -- I was just going to wait in the hallway for you, but the door was open, and I thought -- And then I --"

"It's all right," Mr. Anderson says, still smiling. "Better these than --" He gestures at the open grade book, then stuffs his hands into his pockets, looking at Rachel a little more closely. "Not that you would need to," he adds. "As I'm relatively certain that you're not in any of my classes."

"No, I just --" She blushes, turns away, then plasters her most winning showface on and tries again. "Some of my friends from the Glee club are, though, and they mentioned that --"

Mr. Anderson's brow furrows just a little bit. "If you're referring to Mr. Chang and Mr. Abrams, I can assure you that they've no need to worry about their grades. They're two of my best students."

"No," Rachel says, a little too quickly, and Mr. Anderson's brow furrows even more. Fortunately, the mention of Artie and Mike sparks a fragment of memory within her -- nothing much, just the two of them talking about a lecture and Brittany and Tina and something to do with Fleetwood Mac, but that’s not important right now. What’s important is the other thing Rachel heard. "No, they didn't ask me to -- Just, they're very excited about the possibility of you reforming the academic decathalon team, and so they've been talking about it, and I thought... I'm very well-rounded, academically. Not that Mike and Artie aren’t, too, but they do tend to focus more on the math and science portion of things, and as I’m sure you’re well aware, it’s important to have a well-balanced team. I could... I could balance them out. So to speak. And -- and as I've been performing since a very, very young age, you'd never have to worry about me wilting under the pressure; in fact, I thrive on pressure. Pressure’s one of my favorite things. I am reliable, particularly when it comes to rehearsals and competitions, and I just feel that I could be a real asset to the team." 

She beams at him, and he blinks back.

"Well," he says, quietly. "Of course, we're not quite at that stage of... And given the recent transfer of power from Mr. Figgins to Coach Sylvester, I think the fate of most clubs in the school is somewhat up in the air at the moment. But I will certainly keep your very generous offer in mind." He smiles again; it's such a small, almost bashful smile that Rachel almost forgets to be suspicious of him. Almost. "Is that all you needed?"

"It's... Yes," she says, and starts backing towards the door, careful to keep an eye out for any furniture lurking behind her (her hip really is quite sore). "Yes, that's it. Thank you for considering me, and do let me know if I can bring you a headshot or an audition reel to help you make your mind up. I also have a MySpace and a YouTube account, if you'd prefer to do things electronically. It is the wave of the future."

"I'm sure it is," Mr. Anderson says politely. "Should I just look you up by name, Miss..." 

"Berry," she says, careful to keep smiling. "Rachel Berry. And I'll look forward to hearing from you." She finally manages to turn around, just a few steps from the door, and then finds herself turning back again, acting on instinct more than anything else. "He really is handsome, you know," she says. "Your son, I mean. I can understand why Kurt is so smitten with him."

Mr. Anderson's smile broadens a little. "I'll let him know you said so," he replies, politely. "He's been quite anxious about the idea of meeting you or your friends, seeing that you're technically competitors. It might ease his mind a little to know that you approve."

Rachel doesn't bother pointing out that she does not, in fact, approve. Not yet, anyway. Even if Blaine and his father are attempting to help Kurt out of the good of their hearts, and not (as Rachel still halfway suspects) in an attempt to win his trust and use that trust to get the New Directions' set list... Well. It doesn't mean that Rachel's willing to just let them protect Kurt, when New Directions knows him better, and cares for him more, and would obviously do a much better job of it overall. 

But she can't exactly say that to a teacher. Instead, she opts for the more diplomatic, "We just want Kurt to be happy."

"If it helps at all," Mr. Anderson says, settling back behind his desk, "I can assure you that my son wants the same." He watches her for a little longer, then turns his attention back to his grades. "It was lovely to meet you, Rachel." 

Rachel smiles at him one last time, just to leave a good lasting impression, then slips out of the office and into the hall. She keeps her steps slow until she's well past the office, and only when she's sure she's out of earshot does she let herself speed up to a fast walk. She has a lot of things to think about. Like whether Blaine and his father are genuine threats or merely adorable bumblers, and what she should do about them either way, and what’s happening with David Karofsky, and whether Brittany would be particularly angry if Rachel took her spot on the Academic Decathlon team, and whether it would help at all if Rachel pointed out that she's only doing it to monitor the Andersons and their motives vis-a-vis Kurt. And possibly also because Brittany really doesn't belong on the Academic Decathlon team in the first place, and so Rachel would be doing her and everyone else a favor.

And unfortunately, she doesn’t have time to think about any of these things at the present moment, because she still needs to get changed and put slushie in her hair before she goes to World History class. 

Clearly, she’s going to have to adjust her schedule more than she thought. The life of a spy is such a trying one.

 

*

 

Ben waits until Rachel Berry's footsteps fade off into silence down the hall. Then he stands, crosses to the door, closes it firmly, and finally lets himself dissolve into a fit of laughter so strong that he can barely stand. It's just... that poor child! With her ridiculous smile, and her prim cardigan, and her MySpace, and... He rests his head against the cool wood of the door and leans on the handle and lets himself laugh like he hasn't for weeks. 

He forgets, sometimes, how ridiculous high school students can be. That poor, poor girl. 

But. He'll have to find some way of putting her off from any more snooping. Not that he particularly minds having a student lurking about his office -- he has faith that she'll find nothing more suspicious than those pictures of his son. But then there's the Karofsky situation, which has the potential to become explosive. Even if David hasn't been sent to watch him, even if it really _is_ just a string of unfortunate coincidences... Ben's familiar with David's type, and he knows that he's walking a fine line. 

And if their confrontation in the hallway is any indication, David's more likely to take his frustrations out on his fellow students than he is to strike at Ben himself. And Ben won't have his students becoming collateral damage in this, not if he can help it. Not Kurt Hummel, not Michael Chang or Artie Abrams, and not Rachel Berry. He'll have to find some way of keeping her at arms' length.

But. There is also the matter of Holly Holliday to consider. And as he's due to see her on Saturday, that makes it the pressing concern. Rachel Berry will simply have to wait her turn.

Ben returns to his desk, sits down (a little gingerly; he feels his back aching more with each passing day, and although he realizes it's probably psychosomatic, well. Some things cannot be helped.) He sets his grading aside, for the moment, and turns to his computer. Holly talks frequently about "tweeting" her students; she must have some kind of internet presence. There might just be something, somewhere, that will give him a clue to who she really is, who she works for, and why she's so interested in Ben and his son.

And even if there's nothing to be found, even if her interest comes from genuinely friendly feelings, it's a distraction. And while Ben usually eschews those... Well. It's been two days since the biopsy, two days with no news. Right now, Ben will take any distraction he can find. Perhaps it's a little cowardly, but there are some things he simply can't think about. Not yet.


	7. Will I?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine tries not to think about the possibility of losing his father. He fails.

He doesn't think about it.

He tells the Warblers about his father’s doctor’s appointments without bothering to mention what they’re for, and David and Wes corner him at lunch and give him detailed instructions about David's Nana's Miracle Chicken Soup, reminding him that it's important not to use boxed or canned stock, and never bullion cubes -- God forbid he use bullion cubes -- because it's the fat that's the key ( _schmaltz_ , David says), and plenty of garlic ( _good for the immune system_ , Wes says), and he smiles and he takes notes and he doesn't think about it.

(his father cutting his food into small bites, eating slowly, chewing and swallowing with so much determination that it almost hurts and blaine knows that his dad isn't really hungry, that he doesn't want to eat but he doesn't want blaine to worry either, so he forces himself to keep going and all blaine can do is force himself to eat too, bite by tiny bite --)

He rests his chin on his hands and listens to Kurt rattle on and on about how his potential-soon-to-be-maybe-stepbrother Finn was _not_ interested in the Moroccan-themed bedroom that Kurt designed for them, but Kurt couldn't quite bring himself to go back to his former Dior grey palette once he'd opened his eyes to the potential use of warm colors in his own private space, and so he'd brought in a few touches -- the throw, the lamps -- just a little, not overpowering, but something soothing to the eye, and he doesn't think about it at all.

(pill bottles on the refrigerator and kurt fussing over his father -- is he sure he didn't do too much at the shop today, because he could take a half-day tomorrow if he needed to, the guys all know and they're happy to help out if he's feeling weak, if he's not quite able to -- and that'll be blaine someday, he knows it, even if his father doesn't want him to worry, he knows he won't be able to stop, won't be able to --)

He sits in the waiting room outside the radiology department at Lima Memorial Hospital; and, even here, he doesn’t think about it. He puts his headphones on, opens his notebook, and concentrates on the music, the words, on conjugating his verbs correctly and making sure everything scans, and he doesn’t think about it. He spends half an hour trying to figure out the best way to translate "They say I have the best ass below 14th Street" into Italian without it sounding ridiculous, and even longer on “I didn’t recognize you without the handcuffs,” and he doesn't think about it at all.

(will this waiting room become as familiar to him as his own kitchen, will he come here once every month or two weeks or even every week to wait for his father to come out, a little thinner and paler each time, will he --)

He goes to see _Rent_ with Kurt, and he doesn't think about it. The theater is half-empty -- apparently Greg Evigan isn't the draw he used to be -- and they could take up as many seats as they want, but instead they sit side-by-side, leaning into each other over the armrest in the middle, and Blaine doesn't think about it. 

He doesn't think about it when Angel finds Collins, beaten and robbed on the sidewalk, and Kurt's hand settles on Blaine's forearm, his face softening as he beams at the stage ( _an angel of the first degree_ ). He doesn't think about it during "One Song Glory," with Greg Evigan rampaging back and forth across the set, chewing the scenery so hard that Blaine actually kind of expects him to start sinking his teeth into the flats ( _time flies, time dies_ ). He doesn't even really think about it in the first Life Support scene, when Gordon announces that he regrets his T-cell count ( _fear's my life_ ). 

And even when the lights come back up on the corner of the stage housing the Life Support set, and the actors all stand up one by one to ask "Will I lose my dignity?"

(his father lying face down on the exam table, shirtless, his skin pale and dotted here and there with birthmarks, the rounded scar on his shoulder that’s the only thing they carried with them from Portland, the bones of his spine just visible --)

"Will someone care?"

(his father's grip painfully tight around blaine's hand, and his eyes squeezed shut, and his dad says "i hate needles" and blaine says "i know" --)

"Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?"

("-- usually only takes five to seven days for results," the doctor said, "so you won't have to wait too long," and blaine knew it wouldn't be instantaneous but he's not sure he can stand a week like this, not knowing --)

he tries so hard, _so_ hard not to think about it. But his eyes are welling up, and then they're spilling over, and although he tries to will himself to just stop, or to at least cry quietly, a sort of choked-off gasp makes its way out of his throat, and then another, little hitching half-sobs, and there's no way Kurt's not going to --

"Blaine?" Kurt's hand presses gently against Blaine's forearm, and Blaine stares at the stage, even though his shoulders are shaking now and tears are streaming down his face and Kurt's seen it, of course he has, Kurt's not _blind_ \-- "Blaine, are you..." 

"I'm sorry," Blaine says, his voice breaking over the words -- it's only three syllables and he can't get them out, why can't he -- "I'm sorry, Kurt; I -- Just, I'm sorry, but I..."

Kurt gives Blaine's forearm one last, little squeeze, then slides his hand down to twine his fingers with Blaine's. "Come on," he whispers, tugging Blaine out of his seat. "It's okay. Just... just come on. Or, no -- let me get your coat, hang on --"

Blaine is left standing in the middle of the half-empty auditorium while Kurt ducks down to gather their coats and scarves, and someone a few rows back hisses "Sit down!" at him, and he can't stop crying, and it's awful, but not as awful as the thought of his father having to sit through endless support group meetings ( _I'm used to relying on intellect_ ), losing what's left of his hair, losing his appetite, all those needles and what if it's not enough in the end, what if he -- oh God, what if he --

"Are you deaf? Sit down!"

"Mind your own business," Kurt hisses back, draping Blaine's coat over his shoulders and holding it in place with his own arm as he helps Blaine navigate his way between the seats and out to the aisle, through the lobby and into the cold, crisp night, and Blaine just can't stop crying, because he can't stop thinking about it. 

(what if he -- oh God, what if he --)

 

*

 

He lets go of Blaine just long enough to bundle him into the backseat of the Navigator, climb in front and get the engine going so there'll be heat, and then squirm his way over the console and into the back. He doesn't bother with the dome light; there's enough illumination coming from the parking lot for Kurt to see what he needs to see -- Blaine, slumped against the passenger side door, his hands over his face, like he can't bear for Kurt to see him crying. It's heartbreaking, how careful he is about it, how hard he has to work to be quiet, to not sob, to keep it hidden away. Kurt doesn't know what's wrong -- he has a few ideas, but nothing certain -- but he knows that it's not helping Blaine to keep it all inside like this.

He reaches out, placing one hand on Blaine's shoulder -- Blaine's coat is still just resting there, draped around him like a blanket. Like he's in shock. Maybe he is. "Blaine," Kurt says, quietly. "Come on, talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."

"It's not -- It's nothing, it's just --" But Blaine's voice is so shaky; he can barely get the words out, and that's not nothing. That's _something_. 

"Blaine," Kurt says again, trying to coax Blaine in a little bit closer. He shifts along the seat so that their knees are brushing (because that's something Blaine does, and it's always made Kurt feel better), and tugs a little at Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine, please. Talk to me."

There's a suspended moment where everything sort of hangs, and then Blaine lets his hands fall into his lap and looks up at Kurt, and he's just _wrecked_ , and it was hard for Kurt to see him hiding but this is almost worse. He's seen people crying before -- Santana has Breadstix-related meltdowns like once a week -- but he can't remember the last time he saw anyone who was suffering this much. 

(At least, he can't remember the last time he saw anyone suffering this much who wasn't him, and he's pretty sure he doesn't count.)

"Kurt," Blaine says, his chest hitching with every breath. "Kurt, I -- I'm so sorry; I didn't want... I just couldn't... I'm so sorry, Kurt." 

Kurt shushes him and pulls him in, pulls until Blaine's face is tucked into the space where Kurt's neck meets his shoulders, and Blaine stops trying to apologize, which is good, because Kurt doesn't think he can handle it anymore. Blaine's shoulders jump underneath Kurt's hand, his whole body trembling, and his tears are already starting to soak through Kurt's third-favorite sweater, but he's still fighting it; he's still holding back. And Kurt wants to tell him to stop; he wants Blaine to know that he doesn't have to hold back here, with him, but he doesn't know how to say it. So he rubs his hand in slow circles between Blaine's shoulder blades, pushes his fingertips through the soft, ungelled curls at the nape of Blaine's neck, and tries to wait him out. 

It doesn't take too long. 

Blaine takes one deep, shuddering breath, then another, says " _Kurt_ ," in the saddest voice that Kurt has ever heard, and just loses it, sobbing his heart out on Kurt's shoulder. His hands come up to clutch at Kurt's arms as he cries, like he's afraid that Kurt's to be torn away from him. Or, maybe, he's afraid that Kurt will run away. He was pretty desperate to keep Kurt from seeing him crying; maybe he thinks that it'll somehow make him like Blaine less, that it'll put him off or... or whatever.

Kurt needs to make him see that that just isn't true.

"It's okay," he says, quietly, and keeps moving his hand in slow circles against Blaine's back. Because he's spent enough time around Blaine to know that, in a lot of ways, this isn't okay; it's not like Blaine to let himself break down like this. But Kurt also knows that sometimes breakdowns are absolutely necessary. "It's okay, Blaine. I've got you. I'm right here, and I've got you."

"Kurt," Blaine says again, and buries his face in Kurt's shoulder. 

Kurt closes his eyes and holds on tight, waiting for the shaking to stop. "It's okay, Blaine," he whispers, over and over again. "I've got you. It's okay."

"It's not," Blaine mumbles, hot breath against the skin of Kurt's neck, and Kurt has to work to suppress a shiver. "It's really not okay, Kurt."

His sobs are subsiding now; he could talk, theoretically. If he wanted to. "Did you want to --" Kurt says, and feels Blaine tense up against him, which he's pretty sure means _no_. "It's okay if you don't," he adds, quickly. "You don't have to."

Blaine pulls back a little, but not so far that Kurt has to let go of him. "Just -- I need..." He reaches up with one hand and tugs Kurt's left arm down, pulling until Kurt's hand rests, palm-up, on his thigh. As soon as it's there, Blaine slips both hands around it and holds on.

"Does that help?" Kurt asks, looking down at their joined hands. He wonders, briefly, if he should let go of Blaine entirely. But Blaine is still tucked against his side, his cheek resting against Kurt's sweater, and Kurt doesn't want him to move if he's comfortable like that, so he stays where he is.

"Sometimes my dad --" Blaine bites his lip. "Not that he doesn't listen to me, because he does. He always does. But I know he's got a lot on his mind, and he gets distracted, so I... If I really want him to pay attention, this is what I..."

Kurt takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and wonders what it is about fathers and hands. "Okay," he says, quietly. "I'm paying attention."

"I know," Blaine says, his breath hitching a little. "I know, I just..." He lets out a sound that's a little bit too close to a sob to really be considered laughing. "Sorry. I'm not used to... I don't talk about... I don't talk about _me_ that much, just because... I mean, there's so much, and most people, they don't... They'd never understand -- the things that I --" He sighs, his whole body shuddering with it, shaking under Kurt's arm, and his hands tighten around Kurt's. "I'm sorry. I'm not... I'm trying, Kurt."

"You don't have to," Kurt says, and tries not to sound too much like he wants Blaine to talk to him, wants Blaine to tell him everything (although he does; God, does he ever).

Blaine takes another deep breath, his cheek still pressed to Kurt's chest, hair tickling Kurt's neck. "Yes," Blaine whispers. "Yes, I do." Another breath, then another, and Kurt tries to be steady, tries to be exactly what Blaine needs, whatever that is. "When I took my dad to the doctor," Blaine says, quietly. "Kurt, there's... There's a mass. On his spine. So they had to take some blood samples, and then they had to... They had to do a biopsy, to see if it was... If it was..."

He can't quite force the last word out, but he doesn't have to; Kurt was pretty young when his mom got sick, but he was still old enough to understand the word _cancer_. "Oh, Blaine," he says, softly. 

"And they haven't said, yet, so we don't... We don't know, but I just can't -- I can't stop thinking 'What if,' you know, and I just..." Blaine's shoulders hitch under Kurt's arm, like he's about to break again, and Kurt pulls him in closer, so close that he's practically on Kurt's lap. "Kurt, I'm scared. It's always been just him and me, even before we left the -- Before we had to move, the first time, and ever since then, I've always known... I mean, no matter how hard it gets or how scared I am, I know that he's there, and we'll get through it together. But if he -- If he --" And again, the last word hangs, heavy and unspoken, on the air. If he _dies_. "I don't know how to be on my own, Kurt. I don't. He's always been -- And I'm just so scared."

"It's okay, Blaine," Kurt says, forcing the words out around the lump in his own throat. Because it's too much like the things he couldn't say, when his dad was lying still and silent in that hospital bed, tethered to machines, hands limp and eyes closed. "It's okay to be scared."

"No, it's _not_ ," Blaine says, more desperate than angry, his hands still tightly gripping Kurt's. "Because I have to -- He wasn't even going to tell me at first, because he knew that this would happen, and he hates it when I'm... And I've been trying so hard, because he's scared too, and he needs me to be strong, and I want to be strong, but I just... I _can't_."

Kurt swallows hard. "So don't," he says, and squeezes Blaine close when he draws in breath to protest. "Not around me. Around your dad... It's different, and I know it's different. No one knows that better than I do. But you don't... You don't have to do that with me. You can tell me anything, Blaine. Anything at all."

There's a moment where Blaine sort of freezes up, like he's never even thought about being able to talk to anyone else before and he doesn't know what to do with the idea. "Kurt," he says, quietly. "You say that, but you don't know... It's not just this; it's -- There's things I can't tell anyone. Because I just... I can't."

It's disappointing; Kurt wants to think that Blaine trusts him. But it's only been two weeks now, and he's not going to push. He’s learned his lesson, from Finn, from Sam. He's going to wait. He's going to let Blaine come to him. "I'm not just anyone, you know," he says, lightly, and swears he can feel Blaine smiling against his sweater. "Blaine," he adds, more serious this time. "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. I just want you to know that if you need to, you can. And I won't ask questions and I won't... I won't judge you or anything. I'll just --" He lets his right arm slip down a little bit, stretching across the top of Blaine's arm so that he can grip Blaine's hand with his. "Like this."

"Kurt," Blaine says again, his voice shaky. "I don't... Thank you." The last comes out in a whisper, barely audible against Kurt's sweater. He lets his hands slip away from Kurt's, not pulling back but reaching out for more, and Kurt is happy to let Blaine wrap his arms around Kurt's waist and pull him into a tight hug. "Thank you, Kurt."

"Anytime you need me, I'm here," Kurt says, and it's not everything he wants to say; it's not even half of it. But it's enough for now.

"Thank you," Blaine says, and somehow manages to press himself closer to Kurt, and Kurt closes his eyes and rests his chin on the crown of Blaine's head. It's enough for now.

 

*

 

He stays like that for a long time, his cheek pressed against the softness of Kurt's sweater and Kurt's arms warm around him and he feels... He feels _safe_. 

Which is actually kind of scary, in its own way. Because Blaine doesn't feel safe around people. He feels safe around his dad, and that's it, honestly. He can't trust anyone else. Because there's always someone trying to drag them back to the Island, and he can never tell who they're going to be. They could be anyone. So he never really feels safe around anyone except his father. But now there's Kurt, and Blaine can't help but feel safe around him too, and he doesn't know what to do about that. 

But he doesn't think he wants it to stop, either. 

"Kurt?" he asks, quietly.

Kurt's response is immediate, his arms tightening a little bit more, pulling Blaine a little closer as his voice rings out in the quiet of the car. "What is it, Blaine?"

"I --" Because there's so many things, there's so much he's never told anyone, and he knows there's not really a hurry, but then again there could be. Because of the dream, mostly; because of this feeling that he has of something, of someone, waiting in the wings. And he doesn't want to run away again; he doesn't want to leave Kurt now that he's found him. But he wants Kurt to know _why_ , just in case. He wants Kurt to know that whatever happens, none of it is his fault. 

But he can't quite seem to get any of that out tonight, so instead, he says, "I'm sorry. About the play, and everything. I know you were... I know you were excited about it."

Kurt just shrugs, his chest shifting under Blaine's cheek. "I was excited by the _idea_ of it," he says, airily. "Honestly, the execution left something to be desired. I mean, I liked Angel and Collins -- they were good, for local actors -- but with a Roger that old and a Mimi that young, it just kind of felt like..."

"Yeah," Blaine says, because it did, actually. But he's not really thinking about Roger or Mimi, or anyone else, really. He's just thinking about all of these things, all of these places he's lived in and had to leave before, and how he never really missed any of them, because he always had the most important thing still with him. He always had his father. But now there's Kurt, and he's important, too. And Blaine doesn't want to leave him behind; just the idea of it scares him. 

And he doesn't know what to do about _that_ , either.

"Kurt," he says again.

Kurt just hums this time, the sound reverberating through his ribcage and straight into Blaine's ear.

"It's not that I don't trust you," Blaine says, and he can feel the sudden increase of tension all through Kurt's body, how everything stops being quite so lazy as it was. "I do. I just... There's a lot, Kurt. More than you'd think, and I just... I'm not good at this. I don't talk about myself. It's... It's safer, that way. But I'll... I'll try. If you want me to. I'll try."

"Don't," Kurt says, and it's Blaine's turn to tense up. "Not for me, I mean," Kurt adds, quickly. "Do it for yourself. When you want to. When you're ready."

Blaine lets out a soft, unsteady laugh. "I think I've been ready for a while," he admits. "I just... I don't know. I guess there was just no one to tell. Except my dad, and he..."

"He knows?" Kurt asks.

"He knows," Blaine says. "He knows... He knows everything, I think. But now, he's..." Blaine sighs, sagging against Kurt's chest, because he feels like he's doing this all wrong somehow. "It's not that I'm scared of losing him. I mean, I am, and that's part of it, that I could lose the only person who knows..." He pushes back the tears as best he can, pressing close to Kurt and holding on tight, trusting Kurt to keep him afloat. And Kurt rubs his back gently, comforts him until the urge to cry has passed for now. "But it's not just him. It's you, too. You're..." He takes a deep breath. "Is it creepy, if I've only known you for a few weeks and you're already the best friend I've ever had?"

Kurt sighs, but it's sort of a thoughtful sigh, not necessarily a bad one. "You know that doll?" he asks. "The one my mom carved for her friend?"

Blaine bites his lip and nods. He knows that doll; actually, he sometimes feels like he knows it a little _too_ well, like it has to be -- It's ridiculous, of course. Not that there weren't other people on the Island besides his people, and not like some of them didn't come and go, because he heard enough, growing up, to know that much. But the odds of him actually meeting one of those people (someone who hasn't come to drag him and his dad back again, anyway; there's always been plenty of them) are just way, way too high to be real. Still, though. Blaine knows that doll. "Yeah," he manages, finally.

"See..." Kurt lets out a little self-deprecating chuckle. "Okay, this is kind of hard to explain," he says. "But when I was a kid, my mom used to tell me stories about this island. She used to live there, or that's what she said. But I think a lot of what she told me was... You know, it was bedtime stories. Polar bears and submarines and monsters, stuff like that. Stuff that wasn't really _real_ , you know?"

"Yeah," Blaine says, although his throat's suddenly dry and he's just barely able to get the word out. "Yeah, sure." 

"But she told me, once, that she started working on those dolls the day after she met her friend." Kurt's arms tighten around Blaine's shoulders a little bit. "Before she really knew him, or had even really talked to him. She said that she just... she knew he was important. That he was brought to the island for a reason, and part of that reason was -- Blaine? Blaine, are you all right?"

Because Blaine has tensed up, started to shiver a little. _Coincidence_ , he tells himself. _Just a coincidence._

It's a lie, of course. Some things are just too big to be accidents, and this is definitely one of them.

"Your coat's slipping," Kurt says, dropping his arms away from Blaine's shoulders and pushing Blaine back until he sits up straight, the two of them no longer connected, and Blaine feels the ache of it at once. But he sits, patient, and lets Kurt kneel up on the seat and lean over him, tugging and straightening until Blaine's coat is in place over his shoulders again. "There," he says, quietly. "Better?"

"Thank you," Blaine says, and watches Kurt settle back into the seat, his knee brushing against Blaine's, and he wants to get Kurt to pull him back in again, but he doesn't know how, and he wants to tell Kurt everything, but he doesn't have the words, and he wants to know everything he can about Kurt's mom, but part of him really, really doesn't. Because this is going to change things. This has to change things.

But then again, everything's already changed. Maybe it's too late to go back.

Maybe Kurt was brought to Dalton for the same reason that Blaine's dad was once brought to the Island, and maybe it's stupid for Blaine to keep fighting so hard. Maybe there's more going on than he knows about.

Maybe he just wants to believe in fate for the first time in his life.

"Kurt," he says, reaching out and laying his hand on Kurt's knee; it makes his coat slip off his shoulders and Kurt clucks at him, pulling it back into place again. "This is... I'm sorry, this is dumb, but I --"

Kurt's hands settle on his collar, smoothing it down. "Don't feel dumb," he says, gently. "What is it, Blaine?"

Blaine ducks his head, then thinks better of it and looks up at Kurt again. "Could you... Could you tell me a story? Like... Like your mom would have told you?"

Kurt just smiles at him, so gentle. Blaine wonders if Kurt looks like his mother. He's pretty sure he does. "Of course I can," Kurt says, softly. "Just... let me think about it for a second. It's been a while, so I don't remember."

"Take your time," Blaine says, and edges a little closer, and rests his head on Kurt's shoulder. Then he realizes how presumptuous that is. "Sorry," he adds, pulling away. "Sorry, sorry, I just --"

"Don't," Kurt says, pulling him back down again. He wraps his arm around Blaine's shoulders to hold him in place. "I promise you, you're not bothering me at all." Then he clears his throat. "All right. I've thought of a good one. So what you need to know about the island is --"

 

*

 

It bothers him, a little bit, that she's still wearing her scarf.

Because he's dreaming. He knows he's dreaming. And therefore he feels that he should be able to remember his mother the way she was _before_ \-- before she got thin, before she lost her hair, before the scarves. This is a dream, his dream, and he should be able to dream her healthy again. But he can't, and it bothers him.

But what bothers him the most, even more than the scarf on her head and how pale it makes her look, how dark the circles under her eyes are and how prominent her cheekbones are, is her stubborn refusal to just tell him how the story ends.

(He thinks, perhaps, he's a child right now, although it's hard to say for certain.)

"But why?" he asks again, his voice a little more petulant than he wants it to be. But apparently what he wants doesn't mean very much, even in his own dreams. "It's your story. You should know how it ends."

His mother laughs and cards her fingers through his hair, pulling his head down to her shoulder. It makes him think of Blaine, weirdly enough. But then, maybe that's why he's having this dream. Because he was telling Blaine stories, and... 

"Oh, Kurt," his mother says, cuddling him close. "Don't you see? This isn't my story anymore, sweetheart. It's yours. So you have to write the ending yourself."

"But I don't..." He stares at his feet for a little bit, hanging off the edge of the sofa and dangling above the thick, green grass. Then he bites his lip and looks up at his mother, at her laughing eyes and the warmth of her smile. These things, at least, never changed. No matter how sick she was, no matter how pale or how thin, she always had the most beautiful eyes, the most beautiful smile. "I don't think I can."

"You can," she says, and kisses his temple, and wraps her arms around him. "I have faith in you, Kurt. And..." She drops her head closer to his, close enough to whisper in his ear, like she's telling him a secret. "And so does Blaine."

Kurt huffs and thinks about pulling away, but he knows he never will. This is the only time he sees her anymore -- in his dreams. He can't let go of it for anything. "You're only saying that because this is my dream and you have to," he points out. "Because I want you to."

He expects her to laugh again, but instead she takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly; it tickles his skin. And it feels so real -- her arms around him, her breath against his face, her scarf grazing against the skin of his neck -- he almost believes in it, just for a moment. "Kurt, honey, believe me when I say that this is going to be a lot harder than you know," she says. "And there's going to be times when you might even think... You might not want this, when you realize what it means."

"I thought you said you didn't know how it was going to end," Kurt says, but he can't quite keep a certain trembling note of fear out of his voice.

"I don't have to," his mother says, sadly. She pulls him close, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her and smell the last lingering notes of her perfume, and oh God, he can't be dreaming. He doesn't want this to be a dream. "I know how it started, and that's enough." 

Then she's sliding out of her swing (and since when were they on a swingset? He knows they were on a couch when this started, the old couch that his dad couldn't bear to throw away until after he started seeing Carole), walking barefoot into the jungle, getting smaller and smaller and younger and younger, and Kurt wants to run after her but for some reason he just sits there, rocking back and forth on his swing, hands wrapped around the chains. "Mom," he whispers, trying so hard not to cry. "Mom, please don't go."

"You'll see me again," she says, in a voice that's too young to be hers, but it is somehow. And it's not fair, because now she's a child, but she's still wearing that scarf, and he just wishes he could remember, just for a second, what her hair looked like. "I promise. Someday you'll see me again."

And Kurt sits on the swing and watches her walk away, and he doesn't cry. He wants to, but he doesn't. He waits until she's gone, until everything is gone -- the jungle, the houses behind him, the sound of the leaves in the trees. The chains of the swingset in his hands, the metal poles (it's a fence, he thinks, some kind of fence) in the distance. He waits until he can feel the blankets on top of him and the crisp sheets below, until he knows that he's safely awake in the quiet darkness of his own bedroom, until the dream is over and she's gone for good.

Then, and only then, does he bury his face in his pillow and start to sob.


	8. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see dead people.

_ 1978 _

He watches her vanish into the shadows beyond the sonic fence, and he doesn't say anything. He can't say anything. Just stands there and watches until her blue dress and blonde hair are long gone, like everything else, and he doesn't say anything at all.

 _Alice_ , he thinks. _Alice in Wonderland_. That's what she looked like.

Ben was always scared of that movie. 'Course, Ben's always been scared of everything. Sometimes, Roger even thinks the boy is scared of _him_. Never mind that everything Roger's done since Emily died has been for that boy, never mind everything he gave up by coming to this island to earn a better life for them (only to wind up some sort of glorified janitor, and how the hell is that "working for a better tomorrow," him making supply runs and emptying trash cans and generally shoveling these eggheads' shit? He'd like to know.) But at least it seemed to be good for him and Ben, at least at first -- Ben's never liked new people, so he sort of latched himself to his dad's side, holding his hand and hiding behind him. And yeah, he was way too big to be acting like that, way too old to be that scared of strangers, but at least it was _something_. 

Now it's like every time Roger looks at him, the boy flinches. Runs off to find that girl, Annie, or if she's not around, he finds some other skirt to hide behind. That Miss Shannon, maybe, who helps around the school, or even worse, that --

"Evening, Roger."

Well. Speak of the god-damned devil. 

He turns around, slowly, and watches the new head of security stroll up to him like she owns the whole god-damned island. Like she's better than him. Better than everyone. It takes everything he has just to be polite. "Evening, Ms. Austen."

She doesn't tell him to call her Katie. Everyone else, it's "Call me Katie," but not with Roger. She doesn't like him. Doesn't trust him. The feeling is undeniably mutual. "You looking for something out there?" she asks, settling her hands on her hips. Trying to look tough, like she's not just some little girl dressed up in a man's uniform, doing a man's job.

Hell, if it's not the most unfair thing he's ever seen in his life.

"Just... thinking," he says, and it comes out easy enough, but it's plain from her face that she doesn't buy it. And hell, it's not the truth either, but what's he supposed to say, exactly? _Just thought I saw my dead wife come out of the jungle, so I came for a closer look?_ Like hell. She'd only ask him how much he'd had to drink that night (and yeah, he'd had some, but not enough to start seeing dead people unless there was something damned queer happening). 

"Huh," Ms. Austen says, and doesn't sound impressed. "You know, that fence doesn't do a lot to keep the natives out." It didn't do much to keep _her_ out, either. But Roger's not dumb enough to say so. "So you might want to find somewhere else to think about things. Like your house, maybe. Where your son is. You know, Ben? Your son?"

"'Course," Roger says, and forces a smile. Because he might not like Ms. Austen; he might in fact be pretty damned angry about the way she came strolling out of the jungle with her friends and just took over the damn place, leapfrogging over several other highly qualified people who'd been here a lot longer than she had; he might hate the way she's always jumping into his business and telling him how to raise his son, but she's still the head of security and he's not dumb enough to piss her off. "Yeah, of course. Guess I'll be seeing you around, Ms. Austen."

She nods, and doesn't take her eyes off him once, watching him as he walks away from the fence, around her, and back towards the Barracks. "Goodnight, Roger," she says, once he's turned around and is heading towards home.

He keeps walking. 

But then something starts to feel off to him. Like before, when he saw Emily come out of the woods and start heading towards his house. And it's not about being drunk; it's something else entirely. Something... Something he'd only feel on the island, for whatever reason. So he turns back. 

Ms. Austen is still standing near the fence, staring out at the jungle. And it's the damnedest thing, but Roger'd swear that, for just a second, he sees a man in a business suit, staring back at her. Only for a second, and then the man is gone again. Like Emily. And Ms. Austen turns and heads off again, north along the line of the fence, like nothing happened at all.

And maybe it's just his imagination, but still. Roger can't help wondering if he's not the only one seeing dead people in the jungle.

 

*

__

now

Every so often, he sees a familiar face out there in the world.

It's usually nothing, of course. Just his mind, searching for patterns. Looking for someone he can recognize. Someone from the Dharma Initiative, maybe; he still thinks of Annie every time he sees a woman with light eyes, of Miss Katie every time he sees a head of curly hair. Or sometimes he sees one of his own people, although that's rarer. But he's seen Richard a few times, actually seen him off the Island, out on the streets. And there's another man, one he never really knew, a blond. Sometimes Ben sees him, and the man sees Ben, and usually they acknowledge each other from a distance and then move on. Ben's not particularly worried about that man. He's not worried about anyone that he recognizes.

It's when someone recognizes him. When some stranger, someone Ben has never seen before, takes one look at him and just stares, like they're seeing a ghost. That's what makes Ben particularly nervous. 

Of course, Charles has never sent anyone that Ben knows personally to come and fetch him home to the Island. It's always been strangers.

He muses on this as he sits tucked into a corner table in this shabby little pub that Holly has brought them to, as he watches Holly stand at the bar, chatting with the bartender. She smiles; she leans in; she tilts her head back when she laughs. It's just this side of blatant. And yet, the bartender barely even looks at her, just quick glances now and then when she's particularly loud. 

Mostly, his eyes are fixed on Ben.

Ben, of course, has no idea who the man is. 

He is well aware that Holly is attempting to draw him into something; for the moment, he's willing to humor her. At least until he's figured out what she wants.

"Scotch for the gentleman," Holly says, crushing peanut shells under her high heels as she strides towards their table, drinks in hand. She sets a tumbler down in front of Ben, leaning just a little closer than she should, holding the position just a little longer than she should. She smiles. It's a disarmingly innocent expression. Then she pulls back, sliding into her own seat with her beer still firmly in hand, and takes a sip of it before she continues speaking. "Oh, and I already told Michael you'd be paying. That's not a problem, is it?"

Ben just raises his eyebrows. Whatever her real agenda is, Miss Holliday's approach is... well, it's unique. He'll give her that. "Michael?" he asks.

Holly shrugs and waves her hand at the bar; the bartender is currently serving someone else, but he glances at them again, like he knows he's being talked about. "The bartender. Really great guy. Kind of surprised you don't know him, actually. His son goes to Dalton. With Blaine."

"Really," Ben says, quietly. He looks down at his scotch, looks up at the bartender -- the man is still watching him. 

"Really," Holly agrees, taking another sip of her beer. "He's an interesting character. Well, I mean they both are, really -- him and his son -- but Walt doesn't talk a lot. I guess it's been kind of rough on him, these last few years. What with the plane crash and everything."

Ben blinks at her, his fingers closing around his glass, feeling it cool and smooth under his fingers. He's not planning on drinking anything that Holly Holliday gives him, but he feels that he'll be wanting something to hold on to soon enough. "Plane crash," he repeats.

Holly nods. "Yeah, have you heard about that?" she asks. "I mean, I guess you haven't, since this is the first time you two've met. I mean, you haven't really met yet, but you know what I mean. Seen each other. Whatever. Not that it would matter, really, since he doesn't talk about it anyway." She leans in, arms folded on the table, wicked smile on her face. "It's a _secret_ ," she whispers. Then she leans back, picks up her beer, takes another sip. "But it's the craziest thing. See, I guess they were on that plane that went down in the Pacific about two years back. You know, Oceanic 815? The one that crashed in the middle of the ocean, with absolutely no survivors? And yet here they are. Isn't that crazy?"

"That's..." Ben clears his throat, and wonders absently where he'll be able to find a roster for that particular flight. Both to verify Holly's claims, and... well. If one man can walk away from a plane crash, why can't another? Or several? He needs to be prepared. "That's unbelievable, Holly."

"And what's really crazy," Holly continues, cheerfully, "is that Michael and Walt? They're not the only ones. There's at least two other people from that plane crash that are just... walking around. In Ohio. Within like, fifty miles of Lima." She beams at him. "Isn't that just the weirdest thing?"

Ben will definitely need that roster. And possibly an exit strategy, if it comes to that. Not that he wants to, not when they've just gotten settled again -- and now there's the Warblers, too, and Kurt, and there's no way that Blaine won't take this badly, and of course if they leave now it'll throw off whatever treatment Ben needs for his -- But he'll do what he has to, in the end. He'll keep Blaine safe. Even if it kills him.

Which it might, this time. It really might.

He's got the tumbler raised halfway to his mouth before he remembers that he probably shouldn't drink anything that this woman has given him, and lowers the glass again.

Holly laughs at him. "Chill out, Ben," she says. "I didn't slip you a roofie. And Michael didn't mess with your drink either, trust me. I was watching his hands the entire time. You know, you can tell a lot about a guy from his hands? And by 'a lot about a guy,' I mean a lot about his --" Ben feels his eyebrow arching up, and Holly laughs again. "Jesus, no wonder your students are intimidated by you. I mean, I'm a grown woman, and even I'm a little nervous right now. Well. Nervous and also kind of turned on. Seriously, that scary-intense thing you've got going on right now is totally working for me."

Ben rests the glass on the table, folds his hands together, and leans back. "Holly," he says, quietly. "What do you want?"

The manic gleam fades from her eyes as quickly as it came; she tilts her head, studying him for a few moments. Then she takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again, it's slower. More controlled. "Guess you’ve got me pegged, huh?” she asks. 

It’s not really a question, but Ben answers it as though it was. “If I had you pegged, Holly,” he says, “I wouldn’t be here now.”

She smiles at him, looking more than a little pleased with herself. “Really,” she says. “Wow. I mean, not like I wasn’t trying to cover my tracks, because I totally was. But... I mean, you’re good. Really good. I honestly expected you to have something on me right now, just because... Because you’re _you_.”

“Oh, I have something,” Ben says, quietly correcting her. It’s an outright lie, of course, but he’s good at that, lying. And he doesn’t have much shame in it, either. Not when he’s trying to protect his son. “Not much, but I have something. I simply haven’t figured out what to do with it yet.”

Holly’s smile broadens. “It's Penny,” she says. “Isn't it? You’ve got Penny Widmore.”

It takes everything that Ben has not to react to that name, _Widmore_ ; unwilling to trust his voice, he simply inclines his head, implying acknowledgement. 

“Look,” Holly says, leaning in a little bit. She spreads her hands flat on the table, as if laying down all her cards. It's almost as though she was expecting this; not for the first time, Ben is extremely grateful for his reputation. “I know your history with Charles Widmore. I mean, I don’t know _all_ of it -- I don’t think anyone knows all of it. But what you need to understand is that I’m not here for you. What I’m doing -- what Miss Widmore hired me for? It’s got nothing to do with you. Not really.”

“You’ll forgive my saying so, Miss Holliday,” Ben says, careful to keep his voice calm and neutral, implying nothing, “but I find that extremely hard to believe.”

Holly shakes her head, settling back a little in her seat. “Okay," she says. "I mean it _does_ , but it doesn’t. I mean... I’m not here because of you. I’m here because Michael’s here, and Michael’s here because of you. So I guess in that respect, yeah. It’s got a lot to do with you. But I'm not planning on... I'm not here to like, kidnap you, or anything. If that's what you were thinking. Which, you know, you would be entitled to think. Considering.”

Ben blinks at her, closing his hand once more around the glass of whisky in front of him. It's a lot of words, but not necessarily a lot of content. He needs to coax more specifics out of her. “You’re here for Michael,” he repeats.

“Well, not him, either,” Holly says. “I mean, on the one hand, I need him almost as much as I need you. But on the other hand, he's basically just some construction worker from New York who got on the wrong plane and then crashed on an island and wound up stuck in this mess that he doesn’t really understand. He doesn’t really know who you are or why you’re important; he just knows that he needs to get his hands on you and your son. But there's someone else, someone running the show. That's who I want."

"Well, you're ambitious," Ben says. "I'll give you that." He picks up his glass, swirls it so the whisky comes up the sides and slides back down again, but he doesn’t drink. Not yet. He will, if Holly's saying what he thinks she's saying. But he needs to be sure, first. "And you need me for... what, exactly?”

“Like I said, you’re good.” Holly reaches out for her beer again, turning the bottle in her hands. She is, possibly, a bit nervous about this part. Ben keeps his eyes on her, unwilling to give her a moment to relax. “If you wanted to, you could walk right out of this bar, and... _poof_." She raises her hands, fingers outspread, like the end of a magic trick. "You’d be gone. No one would ever see you again. And Michael and his friends? They’d have to start all over.”

Ben nods, feeling that certain satisfaction as the pieces begin to fall into place. “And so would you.”

Holly looks up at him, her face almost shockingly serious. “And so would I.” 

“So you need me,” Ben says, quietly. “You need me to sit still and act as bait. And more than that, to offer my _son_ up as bait. I hate to be the one to break this to you, Holly, but I’m not really inclined to do that."

Holly's face softens a little; she smiles at him, but it's gentle. "I know," she says. "Honestly, I was kind of expecting you to be gone by now. I figured as soon as you heard the name _Widmore_ , you’d bolt. And then I saw Kurt and Blaine at the show last night, and I thought... Especially with Blaine breaking down like that, you know? God, I just felt so terrible for him, having to leave everything behind, Dalton and the Warblers and Kurt, and...”

Again, Ben does his level best not to react to that. But he feels like, this time, he doesn’t quite succeed. Holly really needs to give herself more credit; she is, among other things, a remarkably perceptive woman.

“But I guess you must have been thinking about that, too,” Holly says, quietly, and yes, very perceptive indeed. “Because here you are.”

“Here I am,” Ben echoes, not bothering to pretend that she's wrong. Because it would be devastating for Blaine to have to leave this place -- the school that keeps him safe, the friends that he loves, the life that they’ve finally built for themselves. And Blaine would survive; of course he would. They always do. 

But Ben has always wanted more for his son than mere survival. If he hadn’t, they’d still be on the Island.

Ben studies Holly for a little while, and she waits him out, patient under his scrutiny. Then he lifts his tumbler from the table, raises it to his lips, and takes a slow swallow. He raises his eyebrows. "MacCutcheon?" he asks, eyeing Holly over the rim of the glass.

She shrugs. "I figured you for a man of taste," she says, calmly. "And don't worry -- it's not the super-old, thousand-dollars-a-glass kind. We're both teachers; I know you're not made of money. But I figured you could let yourself splurge, just this once? Since I've got such an awesome proposition for you, and everything."

Ben nods, takes another sip, then sets the glass back down. "All right," he says. "I'm listening."

 

*

 

Blaine's only half listening as Jeff goes on and on about the Warblers' choreography, and how it would be so great if only they could do a little bit more than their standard _step-touch step-touch step-ball-change_ , and by the time Thad starts methodically shooting Jeff's arguments down around a mouthful of pizza bagel, he's stopped paying attention entirely. Honestly, he's pretty sure that Jeff and Thad have this fight every single time there's a Warblers Game Night. He could probably recite the whole thing from memory. Both sides. With hand gestures. And even if he does miss some new argument that one of them comes up with... well, he'll hear it again. And again. And again.

Anyway, he's got more important things to think about. Like Kurt. Or Kurt's mom. Or Kurt's mom telling her son stories about taking trips on a submarine and seeing polar bears in the middle of the jungle and being attacked by hostile natives while she was in school. Kurt's mom and her life on the Island, her time spent as an actual part of the Dharma Initiative and maybe even his dad's friend, maybe even --

"Blaine," Jon says, holding out one of the controllers, shaking it a little bit.

 

Blaine blinks at him, a little bewildered, called back from his thoughts about Kurt and the Island and their parents and the weird, pervasive sense of fate that's been hanging over him -- not just since last night, but his whole life. Like it doesn't matter how hard they run, or how far, or how much they're willing to leave behind. The Island's going to keep coming for them, keep trying to pull them back. And sooner or later, he and his dad are gonna run out of places to hide. 

Sometimes, he even thinks maybe it'd be better if they just gave up, if they just --

"Blaine," Jon says again. "C'mon, man, it's your turn."

Blaine looks at the controller for a second, then up at Jon, then at the tv screen (where Dhalsim is still floating, cross-legged, in front of the Russian train station), then swallows hard. For just a minute, he feels like he did last night, standing in the middle of that half-empty theater, the center of attention and totally exposed. But honestly, it's just Jon and Aaron, looking at him with expectant eyes. Everyone else is too engrossed in Jeff and Thad's argument to care.

Well. Everyone except Jon and Aaron, and also Wes. 

"Actually," Wes says, pushing up to his feet, his eyes never once leaving Blaine. "I was thinking we're about ready for some more refreshments. If you wouldn't mind giving me a hand, Blaine?"

"Sure," Blaine says, because while he knows that Wes is making a totally transparent ploy to pull him aside for a Serious Conversation, he kind of doesn't mind that so much right now. He's kind of... kind of ready. For a conversation. With someone. He scrambles to his feet. "Sure, no problem. I'll just... I'll just jump back in next round."

Jon and Aaron look at him, then at Wes. Then they shrug. "All right, Nick, you're up," Aaron calls.

"Sweet," Nick replies, and pretty much crawls over Trent's lap in his haste to get to the XBox. Blaine has to take several steps back to get out his way, and he almost knocks Wes down, but Wes just catches his elbow, steadying him. 

"Come on," Wes says, and leads Blaine out of the room.

He lets go as soon as the door shuts behind them, lets Blaine walk a little behind him, both of them with their hands jammed in their pockets. It's always weird seeing Wes out of uniform; he looks so much younger without the blazer and the striped tie. But his shoulders are still set, his posture still perfect. He's still so adult, somehow. Which is maybe why Blaine feels like it's okay when Wes gives him a sideways glance and says, "So. How's your dad doing?"

Well, it's almost okay. Nothing's really okay, and it's not going to be okay until --

Blaine shakes his head and stops walking, leaning with his back against the wall. Cream-colored walls, cream-colored carpeting -- Wes's house is as much a museum piece as Dalton is, which somehow makes Blaine feel perfectly at home. There's a comfort in these pristine spaces, just like there's a comfort in Wes's straight-backed rigidity. It makes Blaine feel... sheltered, somehow. 

It's not necessarily enough to make him tell Wes everything, of course. He's not ready for that. But maybe he's ready for... for a little more.

"Honestly?" he asks, and Wes nods, his expression carefully neutral. "I don't know. I won't -- _We_ won't know until the tests come back in."

Wes just nods again, and leans against the wall next to Blaine. He's even careful in this, every move measured. It reminds Blaine a little of his father, for reasons he's not sure he wants to analyze right now. "So," Wes says. "Maybe a little beyond the chicken soup stage, then."

Blaine feels like he should laugh at that, but somehow he can't quite muster it. Instead, he sighs. "Little bit," he admits, sagging against the wall in a way that Wes never would. His eyes drift shut; he doesn't mean them to, necessarily, but lately he's just so _tired_. It's hard to sleep, lately, what with his dad and Kurt and everything.

And the light, too. He doesn't want to see the light again. 

But he can't tell Wes about that, either.

"Blaine," Wes says, and then stops, and then tries again. "Look. You don't have to tell us anything, okay? If you're not comfortable with... whatever. You don't have to. But you can, if you want. We're all here for you."

Blaine swallows hard at that, because God. He's still not used to this, Warbler Game Nights and familiar arguments and Thad talking with his mouth full and the eerie serenity of Wes's perfectly kept house. "I know," he says. "I do, I know; I just..." He sighs, keeping his eyes tight shut. "It's stupid, but I just feel like... Like if I _say_ it, then it's --"

"Yeah," Wes says, and rests his hand on Blaine's shoulder, a warm and comforting weight, keeping Blaine grounded. 

"But it's not that I don't trust you guys," Blaine continues, because it's the truth. Mostly. "Because I do. You've been -- you've been amazing. All of you. Not just now, but... since I transferred, and everything, and I just..."

Wes squeezes his shoulder, firmly, and it's such a grownup thing to do, and it just makes Blaine feel so much better. "Like I said, you don't have to tell us anything, Blaine. You can, but you don't have to. No one's going to push you."

And it's the weirdest thing, but just the idea kind of makes Blaine want to break down a little bit. Because no one does push him, not really -- he's been afraid of it all his life, of someone asking too many questions that he can't answer, but it's never happened. His dad says it's because most people wouldn't think to ask unless they already know the answers, and anyway, most people are too busy with their own lives to care about his. But it's still overwhelming, sometimes, to hear someone say that they don't care. To hear someone say that they _trust_ him.

(they wouldn't, of course.)

(not if they knew.)

(kurt, maybe, but kurt is very trusting.)

"Hey," Wes says, as Blaine drops his head, his breath hitching, fighting for control. He shouldn't be crying, not in Wes's house, not at Warbler Game Night. He cried last night, with Kurt; he shouldn't _need_ to -- "Hey, Blaine; it's all right; whatever it is, you're going to be --"

His hand tightens on Blaine's shoulder, and down the hall, a door creaks open. 

Blaine straightens at once, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. When he finally manages to open them, he sees a vaguely-familiar woman walking out of one of the bedrooms, clutching a blanket-wrapped bundle to her chest. Her mouth is moving like she's whispering, but her voice is too faint to be heard. She bounces the bundle -- not the bundle, the _baby_ \-- in her arms as she moves towards them. It's obvious she doesn't have any real intentions, doesn't even see them there. All of her attention is on the child in her arms.

For some reason, it makes Blaine ache to see her.

"Aunt Sun," Wes says, his hand still steady on Blaine's shoulder. The woman doesn't quite startle, but her eyes are wide when she looks at him; if Blaine hadn't already guessed it, this would be the moment when he figured it out -- she didn't know they were there. "I'm sorry; were we --"

"No," the woman says, coming towards them with more purpose now. She smiles; she's beautiful -- small and fragile-seeming with dark hair and a round face, a more refined version of Wes's mother, perhaps. "No, not at all. She's a little restless; I thought maybe a walk would help calm her down. That's all." Her eyes settle on Wes's hand, still on Blaine's shoulder; she glances up at Blaine's face, and he wipes his eyes again, realizing too late that he's only calling more attention to the fact that he's been crying. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Wes simply shrugs, and tugs Blaine away from the wall, his hand falling off Blaine's shoulder once Blaine is standing on his own again. "You've met my friend, Blaine, right?" he asks, and it's the smallest thing, but it means so much. _My friend, Blaine_. Not _Blaine -- he's a Warbler_ , or _he goes to my school_ , but _my friend_. 

"Of course," the woman says, cradling her child a little closer to her chest with one arm, so she can reach out with the other. Blaine takes her hand; her grip is surprisingly firm. "I remember Blaine."

Blaine flushes a little bit, embarrassed, because he honestly can't place her right now. "I'm sorry," he says, dropping her hand and ducking his head. "I'm afraid I don't..."

"It's all right," the woman says, smiling. "It was a few months ago. My name is Sun. I'm Wesley's aunt."

"And this," Wes adds, reaching out to his aunt, "is Ji Yeon." Sun passes the baby over readily, the two of them smiling at each other. Wes cradles the baby in his arms like an expert, turning so Blaine can see past the blankets. 

Blaine leans in to look, and almost immediately forgets to be embarrassed. He knows he's inherited his father's fondness for children, and has an especially large soft spot for babies. And Ji Yeon is probably the prettiest baby Blaine has ever seen, all shining eyes and fine, dark hair. "She's beautiful," he says, a little awed. "How old is she?"

Sun smiles at him. "Almost five months, now." She reaches out, traces one finger down Ji Yeon's cheek. "Getting so big."

Wes looks at his aunt; the two of them seem to share a moment of silent communication. Then Sun steps back, and Wes holds Ji Yeon out, just a little ways away from his body. "Do you want to?" he asks.

"Can I?" is Blaine's only response -- too hopeful, too eager. But Sun nods at him, still smiling, so Blaine holds his arms out and lets Wes lay Ji Yeon in them, careful to cradle the back of her head with one palm, the other supporting her bottom, keeping her safe and secure. Ji Yeon's eyes focus on him, looking a little perplexed, and then she purses her lips and blows a raspberry at him. Blaine laughs, delighted. "Oh my _God_ ," he says, absolutely entranced by Ji Yeon's frown, the way she slaps at him with one chubby hand, as if testing his face for... for something. "Hey. Hey, Ji Yeon. Hey. _Hi_."

She coos back at him, still patting at his face, and Blaine smiles so hard that it hurts a little.

"I think he's in love," Wes deadpans; Blaine flushes at that, but doesn't respond. Anyway, there's not much he can say, seeing as how it's basically true. He's always been this way with little kids and babies; maybe it's just because he hardly ever gets to see them, even out here in the world, but they just... they just amaze him. They're so _new_. Then Wes pats him on the shoulder again. "I'm going to head to the kitchen, start getting things together. Come find me whenever you're ready."

That gets Blaine's attention; he looks up at Wes and sees him looking back, his eyes somehow so knowing. "I could --" he says, because he feels he has to at least offer, but Wes just shakes his head.

"Take your time," he says, and smiles, then turns away, jamming his hands back into his pockets as he strolls down the hallway in his pink hooded sweatshirt and loose jeans, and it's so weird sometimes, how Wes can be so... so _old_ , and yet he's only seventeen. Blaine doesn't understand it. 

He wonders, sometimes, about Wes. He wonders a lot.

But then Ji Yeon makes a discontented noise, this one more petulant than her earlier babbling, closer to a cry, and Blaine immediately shifts her so she's tucked into his chest more, starts bouncing up and down on his toes a little bit to help calm her down. "Sssh," he croons, smiling down at her. "Sssh, it's okay. It's fine; it's okay."

Her whole face scrunches, and then she yawns, and he just beams at her because he can't help it. 

"You're good with her," Sun says, and Blaine blinks at her, startled. He'd almost forgotten -- "Do you have a lot of brothers and sisters at home?"

"No," he says, and can't quite keep the regret out of his voice. Not that he's not happy with his dad, or anything. He is; of course he is. Just... it gets lonely, sometimes, when they have to keep moving and there's never anyone else to come along with them. "No, it's just me and my dad. But I... When I was younger, I used to go to a lot of dinners and things with my dad. Work stuff. And a lot of his colleagues would have babies, and I guess I sort of wound up, like... designated babysitter. Because I was always the oldest kid there, so. But I liked it; it was always more interesting than listening to the lecture or whatever." Sun nods at him, her eyes very round, and Blaine tries to laugh, to hide how self-conscious he's suddenly feeling. "Sorry. I'm babbling. Here, I should probably --"

But Sun turns away before Blaine can give Ji Yeon back.

"I always wished my parents had more children," she says, wandering down the hallway, and Blaine follows after her, bouncing Ji Yeon a little as he goes. "When I was younger. A brother or a sister. Or both, perhaps. Our housekeeper had a little daughter; I used to pretend, with her. But it was never the same."

Blaine frowns at that, a little puzzled. "But I thought -- I mean, Wes's mom; isn't she your --" he says, before catching himself. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

Sun just gives him a small, quiet smile. "It's fine," she says. "No, the Kims are my husband's family. They offered to let me stay with them, after he..." The smile fades away, and she doesn't finish. She doesn't really need to.

"Oh," Blaine says, because there's nothing else to say. "Oh, I'm so sorry." 

Ji Yeon burbles against his shoulder, and he absently rubs his hand in circles on her back, shushing her.

"Of course, my father wanted me to come home to Seoul," Sun says, and she sounds a little bitter, maybe. "But I thought... I thought it might be better for us here. And Wesley's family has been very kind."

"Yeah," Blaine says, glancing at the open door of the kitchen, where Wes is waiting for him. "Yeah, they're like that."

When he looks back, Sun is two steps ahead of him. "But your father," she says, as he lengthens his strides to catch up. "He raised you by himself? That must have been hard, for him."

Blaine can only shrug, careful not to jostle Ji Yeon too much when he does so. He feels like, maybe, she's drifting off; there's a laxness to her now, although she's too small to really be considered heavy in his arms. "I guess," he says, because while parts of their life have definitely been hard, that's usually not too much about the two of them. It's everyone else that's the problem. "I don't know. I mean, I'm sure it is, but he just... He makes it look easy." Sun gives him a glance that he can't quite categorize, and Blaine just shrugs again. "I don't know. I mean... yeah, it's hard sometimes. But I love him, and he loves me, and we just... we make it work, somehow. Together."

"I worry," Sun says, confidingly, looking at Blaine for only a second before dropping her gaze back to the floor. "About what will happen. When we leave here and it's just the two of us. I worry that I won't be able to give her everything she needs."

"I don't know if it's that complicated," Blaine says, quietly. Because it's true, really. He's wanted things, sometimes, things that his dad couldn't give him. But he's always had what he's needed. "I think that if she knows you love her, then that's enough. Well, that and food. And, like, a house." Sun actually laughs a little bit at that, like she's startled but pleased at the same time, and Blaine feels proud out of all proportion to what he's actually done. "Love, food, and a house," he repeats. "And you'll be fine."

Sun smiles at him for a little longer, before her gaze finally shifts to the baby in his arms. "I think she's asleep," she says, softly, reaching up. Blaine sets one hand at the back of Ji Yeon's head, cradling her carefully as he lowers her down, back into her mother's arms. One little fist waves aimlessly in the air for a second, and then Ji Yeon settles, content. Sun watches her daughter sleep for a moment, then looks back up at Blaine. "Your father," she says. "He did a good job."

Blaine just nods, and wonders if it'd be too presumptuous of him to tell Sun that she'll do a good job too. It probably is, but he kind of wants to anyway. "Yeah," he says, finally. "Yeah, he did."

"It was nice to meet you, Blaine," Sun says, and smiles at him one last time before turning to walk back down the hallway, fussing with Ji Yeon's blankets as she goes.

"Yeah," Blaine says, watching her leave. "Yeah, you too." 

And the strangest thing is how much better he feels about everything. Because yeah, it has been hard sometimes. And this -- the mass and the doctors and the tests and everything -- this is going to be hard, too. But he and his dad have always gotten through the hard stuff together, and they always will. They'll get through this. 

He can't give up, not yet. 

 

*

 

"I'm telling you," his father says, and Dave knows he should start the game back up, drown his father's voice out, but he can't. He's gotta listen; he needs to know. "This is the best way. Divide and conquer. Works every time."

"Not every time," the Iraqi points out, his voice softer. "And to divide them means to divide our own team as well. I'm not sure that's the wisest course."

"You're kidding, right?" There's that _something_ in his dad's voice that has always made Dave feel a little uncomfortable, the way he almost sounds like he's joking but he's really just pissed off. His dad sounds like that a lot, lately. "Divide our own team? When have we ever _not_ been divided, Sayid? Huh? You sit down for dinner with Mrs. Kwon lately? Or go to the bar with Michael for a beer? We try to pull everyone back together into one happy family now, we'll never get anything done. Too busy fighting over everything, just like we did on the -- Like we did before. And look where that got us."

The Iraqi doesn't say anything for a little bit, and Dave thinks about hitting the _pause_ button again, about drowning them out the way he's supposed to. But he doesn't. He can't. "And Michael and Sun," the Iraqi says. "Are you sure they're the right ones to send after the boy? Because I find it hard to imagine either of them --"

"It's not like we're asking them to _hurt_ him, Sayid," his dad says. "Just... bring him home. Hell, maybe he wants it. It's not like leaving was his choice in the first place. I mean, that Linus guy basically kidnapped him. He probably wants to go home. He'll probably _thank_ us."

"You don't really believe that," the Iraqi says, still soft-voiced and calm.

It only makes Dave's father sound more brittle by comparison. "Look," he says, and his voice is all strained calm, and Dave kind of curls in on himself a little bit. "It doesn't matter what I believe. Okay? The man in charge wants us to bring them back. So we're bringing them back. What happens after that? Not our problem."

"That's assuming that all goes well. But what if it doesn't?" There's a silence, and then the Iraqi continues. "Remember, you're not only risking yourself with this plan. Your son is in danger too."

"My son," Dave's father says, "can handle himself." 

"Really." The Iraqi doesn't say anything else; he doesn't need to. His meaning is perfectly clear. And Dave thinks that maybe he should be offended by that, but then he remembers standing in the hallway with Mr. Anderson staring up at him with those eyes of his, and he can't quite manage it. Because honestly, he's not so sure he can handle this at all. 

His dad just sighs. "Look, Sayid, this is the plan. You don't like it? Fine. Go back to the man in charge. See if you can get him to change his mind. But you better hurry, because God only knows what's gonna happen to that girlfriend of yours while you're off screwing around. Me personally? I doubt it's gonna be anything good."

The silence that follows is heavier than anything, and Dave pushes himself off the floor a little, listening intently for a sound, for a sign that he needs to get his butt out there. Because maybe he agrees with the Iraqi a lot more than he agrees with his own dad these days, but that doesn't mean he's gonna let his father get hurt. "And I, personally, doubt that anything good is going to come of my staying," the Iraqi says. "But. I suppose someone needs to be here to protect the others when this blows up in your face."

"Your objections have been noted," Dave's father says, his voice still sharply edged. "Now. Let's talk tactics. Obviously, we're going to have to rough both of them up a little bit, but we need to make sure that they both stay alive long enough to get to the --"

Dave swallows hard and hits the button on his controller, filling the room with the sounds of gunfire and screaming. He's fine with that, in a video game. He's not fine with the idea of his dad getting involved in that in real life. 

He's not fine.


	9. The Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when Ben tries to color inside the lines for a change.

Sunday is always for football, for sitting on the couch with Kurt's dad and a big bowl of low-sodium carrot chips while they yell things at the screen and Kurt walks in and out of the room, doing Kurt things and shaking his head at them and only occasionally asking about the score. Except Kurt's in his room today, with Blaine, and they don't seem to want to come out, and for some reason, it makes it hard for Finn to concentrate on the game. Like, what's the point of throwing his carrot chips at the screen after a really bad play if Kurt's not going to yell at him for it? It just doesn't even feel right.

And he's pretty sure he shouldn't worry too much about Kurt and Blaine, because Burt doesn't seem to be too worried and Burt probably knows a lot more about what's going on than he does. Because he's Kurt's dad, and everything. So he thinks that maybe if Burt's not worried, then he shouldn't be worried either. But he kind of is anyway, no matter how hard he tries to stop it.

"So," Burt says, quietly. "What do you think about this Blaine kid, anyway?"

... Well, crap.

Finn shrugs and grabs another fistful of carrot chips, partially because he needs something to do with his hands and then also partially because they're actually a lot tastier than you'd think they would be. "I dunno," he says, picking a chip up and studying it. The thing that bothers him the most about these is that they're kind of brown; Kurt says that's because they aren't doused with chemicals, but Finn's not totally sure if he buys that. "Kurt doesn't talk about him a whole lot. I guess because he's from a different school and stuff, so he thinks that we'll think that Blaine's like... spying, and stuff? So he doesn't talk about him. So I kinda... I dunno."

Burt makes this kind of a funny, _thinking_ kind of a face, and adjusts his baseball cap slightly. "Yeah, well," he says. "Sometimes I kinda get the feeling that Kurt doesn't talk about a lot of things."

"Like what?" Finn asks, his forehead scrunching up like it does when he's confused. Because he is confused. Really confused.

"Like..." Burt shrugs. "I don't know. Like... How when you guys were all dressed up like Lady GooGoo or whatever, those two kids kept threatening to beat him up and it basically took the whole glee club to get them to finally back off. Or how the same kids ripped your letterman's jacket in half because they said you were... you know. Bisexual, or whatever."

"Yeah, well, Kurt didn't know about that," Finn says, quickly. "I didn't... I mean, I wouldn't want to --"

Burt looks at him, and it's the kind of look that makes Finn always feel vaguely guilty and kind of scared. "Wouldn't want to what?" Burt asks, his voice real quiet. "Scare him? 'Cause I'm not gonna lie, Finn -- if I was him, I'd be real scared hearing about something like that happening to one of my friends. It'd make me wonder what if something like that was gonna happen to me. Especially if I was like Kurt, you know. If I was gay. I'd be real scared by that."

Finn stares at his fistful of carrot chips. "This... isn't about Blaine at all, is it?"

"See, now, it kind of is," Burt says. "'Cause you know how Kurt's always talking about he just wants to spend time with someone who's like him, someone who he's got... Who he's got _that_ in common with? Well, I was talking to Blaine's dad the other day, and it turns out that Kurt and Blaine have more in common than just, you know, being gay."

Which is true, obviously, because they're also both really into singing, and they're both in glee club, and they both seem to like musicals and stuff, but Finn's pretty sure that's not what Burt's talking about, so he doesn't bring it up.

Which is probably a good idea, because Burt's not done talking. "See, I guess that for a while there, before he transferred to that private school with the ties, Blaine wasn't telling his dad a whole lot either. Wasn't talking about what was going on at school or whether the kids were picking on him or anything. And it turns out, Blaine was getting picked on at his old school And more than that, too. More like... Well. More like the things your mom said were happening to you. Which kind of made me wonder if that was maybe something else that Kurt and Blaine had in common. If those things were happening to Kurt, too." 

"Oh," Finn says, still staring at his chips. He can feel Burt staring at him, but he doesn't look up. Because if he looks up at Burt, then he'll basically have to tell. And it's not like he doesn't want to tell Burt. Because he does. It's just... he doesn't want Kurt to kill him, or whatever. Which he probably would, if Finn told.

But then if Finn doesn't tell, then maybe it'll kill Kurt, or he'll have to transfer, or whatever, and he doesn't want that either.

Burt stares at him for a while. Just stares, like he's reading Finn's face. Probably he is -- Burt talks kind of rough or whatever, but he's scary smart when he needs to be. Kurt gets it from him; Finn's sure of it. "And Blaine's dad said that he wasn't totally sure that that was what was happening with Kurt, but he was gonna keep the lookout, just in case. Since he's a teacher, or whatever," he says, finally. "Which is nice of him, to do that. He seems like a pretty nice guy. But it kind of makes you think, you know? Like, it's nice that there's one guy, looking out for Kurt. But it'd be a lot nicer if there were more guys, looking out for Kurt. You know what I mean?"

Finn swallows hard. "Yeah," he says, his mouth a little dry. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean."

"Good," Burt says, and then settles back into the couch, taking a swig of his diet soda. "So," he says. "You gonna eat those chips or just stare at 'em all night?"

It takes a second for Finn to remember what Burt's talking about. Then he stuffs the carrot chips in his mouth without even thinking about it, even though there's too many and they're like, super dry, and it's kind of the grossest thing he's ever done except for that one time at Puck's with all the marshmallows.

But he chews them up and washes them down with diet soda, and doesn't say anything. And the two of them go back to the game, only Finn's kind of not thinking about OSU's offensive line or their bowl game chances anymore.

He's pretty sure Burt isn't thinking about OSU either.

 

*

 

She's not totally sure what to think of this Anderson guy just yet. Hell, up until now, she didn't really think of him at all. 

Which isn't fair, maybe, and she's pretty sure that she, of all people, should know better. But she's had a lot on her plate, what with the worst football team in Ohio to deal with, and Sue riding her like a long-tailed flea on a grasshopper, and everyone else treating her... well, like everyone else treats her. Chances are, if someone's not right up in the panther's business, she's not even gonna notice they're in the jungle. And from what she's seen of Anderson, he's not the kind of person who gets into anyone else's business. Too busy minding his own.

Except now there's this Karofsky situation come up, and that is Anderson's business. More than it's hers, truthfully. That Anderson's willing to talk to her about this is a courtesy, a formality. It's appreciated, for sure, but Shannon knows that it's not like she's got a lot of options. And Hell, it's not like she's happy about losing her right guard like this, but rules are rules. If a kid can't keep his grades up, then he can't play. It's that simple. 

At least Anderson's not sneaking around about it, running to Sue and leaving Shannon out of the loop. He's willing to sit down and talk about it, teacher-to-coach. She can respect that. 

And she does need someone to eat lunch with now that Will's gone. Never could stand sitting alone.

Anderson's already in the faculty lounge when she finally makes it in there, sitting at a table by himself, reading while he picks away at his lunch. He looks up at her as she approaches the table, nods at her, smiles a little. Not quite the welcome that Will would have given her, but then he's not Will. "Coach," he says, amiably enough. If nothing else, at least he doesn't look scared.

"Got your note," she says, dropping her bag on the table before sinking down into a chair across from him. He glances at her lunch as she starts pulling it out, container by container, then shrugs and takes another bite of... whatever he's eating. All she can tell is that it's green, and stringy, and doesn't look at all appetizing. She wonders if maybe she should offer him some chicken. Maybe she'll see how the conversation shakes out first. "Have to say, I was kind of surprised."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Surprised by what?" he asks. "That I was failing one of your best defensive linemen?"

It's a little sharper than she was expecting, although she's not totally sure why she didn't see it coming. He's a geek and she's the football coach; it's obvious he's going to be a bit touchy about things. "Surprised that Karofsky's taking calculus in the first place," she says, tearing the first drumstick off her roast chicken. "Hell, even I think the kid's a meathead, and look at me." She gestures at herself with the drumstick, a little grease flying off and catching the collar of her polo. "I'm not exactly genius material, here."

"Yes, well." Anderson stabs some more green stuff with his fork, but doesn't try to eat it. Shannon can't really blame him. "Appearances can be deceiving." He keeps his eyes on his food, and not on her, so she can't tell if that's directed towards her, or just a general statement. "Actually, David was one of my better students last year. Not the best, perhaps, but certainly intelligent enough. There's nothing we've covered this year that should be particularly challenging for him."

"Huh." Shannon tears another bite off her drumstick, thinking things over as she chews. Her biggest handicap with the kids on her team is that she hasn't been here long enough to really know any of them. She gets the info she can, here and there, but it's hard when the only person she really knows that well is Will, and he basically doesn't pay attention to any kid who's not in that glee club. Hell, she's not even sure about them, sometimes. And it's not like she's expecting this Anderson guy to know that much more about Karofsky, but he's gotta know something. "You had him last year?"

Anderson nods at her. "I started in January. He was in my first class, actually. Pre-calculus."

"He behave himself? Back then, I mean. Or has he always had the attitude problem?"

That gets her a surprised look before Anderson's expression breaks into something that's actually like a real smile. It's kind of nice, actually; Shannon's not necessarily trying to prove anything to the guy, not worried about him realizing that she's maybe a little different from the other coaches he's worked with, that she's willing to respect him and give him a fair chance. But it's not like it hurts, either. 

Then Anderson's expression sobers, turning maybe even a little grim. "I would say..." He studies a forkful of his green stuff, thoughtfully. "David seems to me to be a particularly angry young man. He used to do a better job of keeping it under wraps, that's all. Or, at least, he used to keep it under wraps when he was around authority figures; from what I've heard, he's never been shy about pushing around his fellow students when there's no one around to catch him."

The worst thing is that Shannon can't even find it surprising. More and more these days, she's been walking into the locker room before practice to find her kids glaring at each other, shoulders set and hands twitchy, like they're gunning for a rumble. And Karofsky's always in the middle of it, running his mouth like a damned tractor. And that's knowing that she's about to walk into the room. "So you've never actually seen him," she says, propping her chin on her hand. "Pushing kids around."

"No," Anderson says, flatly, and there's no trace of a smile anymore. He's just flat, wary, watching her. Waiting.

"Yeah," Shannon says. "Me neither."

And just like that, Anderson relaxes; she can see it in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. "But you think he is."

It's almost funny enough to laugh at. "Honey, I know he is," she says, leaning in. "I'm just not totally sure that kicking him off the football team is gonna make him any nicer to be around. Might not be the best thing in the world for his grades or anything, but it is an outlet. And if anyone needs an outlet, it's that kid."

"Understood," Anderson says. "Which is why I'm not asking you to kick him off the team. But if he were to be benched during the games -- not during practice, but just for the games -- until his grades start to come up again... He needs to be reminded that there are rules, Coach. And that there will be consequences if he breaks them. This might not be much, but it is a start."

She leans back in her chair, thinking about it. On the one hand, it really _isn't_ that much. Anderson'd be well within his rights to ask for more, if he wanted to, and Shannon couldn't really do that much to stop him. Not with Sue gunning for the football team the way she is; hell, she'd probably flunk 'em all if she had a chance. Anderson doesn't have to play nice with her; honestly, she's not totally sure why he's bothering.

But then, he knows Karofsky. Better than Shannon does. So she figures he's got his reasons.

"Sounds like a plan to me," she says, sticking her hand across the table; her fingers are a little greasy, maybe, from the chicken, but Anderson still shakes her hand without a second's hesitation. 

"Of course, we'll still have to get Sue's support," Anderson says, pulling his hand back across the table. "Since I'm sure David won't be happy about this, and then, of course, there's the parents... But I'd be more than willing to go to Sue on my own, if you'd like. I understand that the two of you have had your differences."

For just a second, Shannon thinks about letting him. Because yeah, she and Sue don't actually get along. But it's not like Shannon really wants trouble with Sue, especially not now that she's the one in charge. Maybe if Sue sees Shannon willing to work with the rest of the faculty, willing to sacrifice her own team to do what's best... Probably won't make a difference, in the long run, but it's just like a wet dog pissing in the river -- every drop counts. "Nah," she says. "We'll do it together. Unified front, right?"

"Of course," Anderson says, and smiles at her, and she smiles back. 

"And if the parents come crying, then we'll handle _that_ together, too," she adds. "I mean, not that I think they wouldn't listen to you, on your own, but..."

Anderson just shakes his head. "But they wouldn't," he says, dryly, and raises one hand when she opens her mouth to protest. "I may not have spent that much of my career working in high schools, Coach, but believe me, I know how these things work. People don't pay that much attention to the math teacher. But the football coach -- That's someone that people listen to. Someone they respect." He shrugs a little bit, looking back down at his green stuff. "And while I feel a little awkward about riding on your coat tails like this, I'm afraid that it's the only way I can get anyone to listen to me."

Shannon frowns for a second, looking at him. The thing is, she's got a sneaking suspicion that this has less to do with Karofsky's grades, and more to do with what he's been up to outside the classroom. About his pushing kids around. Because that's not something people pay attention to at this school, not really. Even Will doesn't seem to notice it half the time.

But Anderson's noticing it. And Shannon's noticing it too. 

"I'm listening," she says, quietly, and is gratified when he smiles down at his green stuff, the tips of ears turning a bit red. When she thinks about it, now that she's thinking about it, there's something she kinda likes about the guy. He's decent, is the thing. He's got integrity. And that counts for a lot in her book.

And hell, she really does need more friends around here.

"So hey," she says, digging into her mashed potatoes. "I got a question for you, Mr. Anderson."

"Call me Ben," he says, promptly. 

She nods. "All right. Ben," she says, and watches him scoop up another forkful of green stuff. "What the hell are you eating? Seriously, is that even food?"

He doesn't answer right away, just drops the fork back in its dish and starts laughing, quietly. After a second, she starts laughing too.

 

*

_from the journal of Sue Sylvester_

Dear Journal:

They say that the true test of power is what you do with it. Today, for the first time since my meteoric rise to the Presidency of this school (I'm sure my detractors would remind me that I'm only the principal, but I feel the difference is purely semantic), I have truly come in touch with my own power. Not only have I been granted the opportunity to finally rid this school of the pestilence that is Will Schuester, I have found myself in a position to truly affect the life of one of my students. 

That student? One David Karofsky.

I must admit that I hesitated at first. Having the Beiste barge into my office uninvited left me in little mood to listen to her obnoxious braying, and seeing her accompanied by one of the math teachers (possibly named Henry, possibly also a eunuch) was unsettling in the extreme. My dislike of _The Odd Couple_ is well-known, not only to you but also to the readership of several well-trafficked message boards, and there could be no odder couple than that giantess and her bespectacled, gnomish paramour. The only thing that prevented me from vomiting on my recently-polished desk was the fact that they're both so entirely sexless that I couldn't have pictured the two of them mid-coitus even if there had been video evidence of the deed. However, my nausea at the very concept of the two of them ever being intimately involved prevented me from having them removed from my office, and when my ears stopped ringing and I was able to hear what they were saying, I realized that I was at the watershed moment of the early phases of my dictatorship.

Their request was simple enough. After some discussion of Karofsky's poor academic performance, they had agreed that he should be rendered ineligible from competing in athletic events until his grades improved. It was a cautious step, and as you know, Journal, Sue Sylvester is not a cautious woman. I throw caution to the wind, and if that doesn't work, I pick it back up and stuff it in the wood chipper, and then throw the tiny, blood-spattered pieces that are left behind to the wind. 

I find they scatter better that way. 

Regardless, I put forward a counter-proposal -- that David Karofsky be immediately removed the football team and from his calculus class, and instead placed back into a remedial mathematics program, something that won't be too taxing for his obviously damaged brain. Of course, neither the Beiste nor Professor Moriarty were emotionally, intellectually, or sexually prepared for the sheer audacity and genius of this plan. Which didn't really mean anything, since neither of them holds any position of power in the current regime. I hold all the power. And I make all the decisions. And my decisions are absolutely final.

I'm sure Karofsky and his parents will take this calmly. After all, the boy has already attained more than enough muscle mass to subdue the convicts at whatever third-rate, gang-infested hellhole will eventually take him on as apprentice prison guard. And in such professions, higher-level mathematics are a waste of time. All he needs to know is that soap + nail file = shiv. And he'll learn that one the first time he turns his back on a member of the Latin Kings. All I'm really doing is pushing him towards his higher calling.

And if his parents don't appreciate this, then I'll just remind them to direct all their complaints to the people who are truly responsible for this mess -- Coach Beiste, and that guy with the glasses.

Overall, I'm exceptionally pleased with the way that this has turned out, and I see no possible reason for this to go wrong in any way, shape, or form.

 

*

 

He doesn't even wait for Karofsky to shove him into the lockers. As soon as he sees him storming down the hallway, he flattens himself back against the cold metal, his head cracking back with enough force to rattle his teeth, closing his eyes and turning his face away. All he can hear are Karofsky's footsteps coming closer, closer, _closer_ \-- 

And then passing, and by the time Kurt's managed to crack his eyes open again, Karofsky's already rounding the corner and disappearing from sight. 

" -- could have been worse, I suppose, although I'm not entirely sure how," someone says, coming from the same direction as Karofsky had. And it's not just someone, it's Blaine's dad, and Kurt knows he should peel himself away from the lockers and go back to gathering his books together, but he can't quite catch his breath. 

Because God, Karofsky's _face_. Kurt's never seen anything like it. Whoever pissed him off... They really, _really_ pissed him off.

"You ain't kidding." And that's Coach Beiste, and Kurt lets his head _thunk_ back against the lockers again, because if Coach Beiste and Mr. Anderson are talking about what he thinks they're talking about... This is bad. This is very bad. "Did you see his face right before Sue kicked him out of her office? I don't know what that kid's gonna do, but I'm willing to bet it ain't nothing but --"

"Kurt." And Kurt opens his eyes just in time to see Mr. Anderson break away from Coach Beiste, hurrying over, and he finally manages to push himself away from the locker, standing straight and trying to smooth his clothes back down. Just because he's freaking out doesn't mean he gets to freak anyone else out, after all. "Kurt," Mr. Anderson says, coming in a little closer, his hand reaching out towards Kurt's elbow but not quite touching him. "Is everything all right?"

He manages a smile, pushes his hair back into place and smiles even wider. It's not just that he's still confused by what happened in that locker room, even now; it's not just that he's unwilling to out David no matter how hard the situation gets (although both of these things are true). It's that Mr. Anderson is Blaine's dad, and Kurt, of all people, knows how dads can be. "Fine," he says, and forces out something that sounds almost like a laugh. "I'm fine. Just... hall's kind of crowded, today. Didn't want to get elbowed by a cheerleader; you know how sharp their elbows are."

It's probably the worst lie he's ever told, and judging by the looks exchanged by Coach Beiste and Mr. Anderson, neither one of them buys it. "Listen," Coach Beiste says, her voice surprisingly gentle for all it's so deep. "Kiddo. If someone's pushing you around or anything, we can do something about it. Hell, the way Sue's handling things, we could probably get someone sent to jail, if you wanted."

" _No!_ " He says it too quickly, his voice too high, too sharp, and the only thing that gets him breathing again is the way Mr. Anderson's hand settles on his elbow, steadying him. "No, really, it's -- It's fine. I'm fine. I'm... I'm fine."

"Kurt," Mr. Anderson says, for the third time, and he's just about to add something else when his phone buzzes, loudly, in his pocket. Mr. Anderson frowns, letting Kurt go, and digs his phone out of his pocket. He checks the screen, and his face falls. Just for a second, and then he composes himself, but that one second tells Kurt pretty much exactly who's calling. "Excuse me," Mr. Anderson says, and he's smiling but his face is suspiciously blank. "Excuse me, I... I need to take this."

He hurries away without a backward glance, and without even thinking about it, Kurt moves to follow him. Because it's the doctor -- he knows it is, it has to be, and maybe it's none of Kurt's business, but still. This is Blaine's dad, and Blaine is worried about him, and Kurt is worried about Blaine, and he just needs to know. But he hasn't even gotten a step away from the lockers before Coach Beiste's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back with surprising gentleness.

"Hey," she says, quietly, watching him with kind eyes. "Look. I'm not here to tell you your business, or anything. But that Karofsky kid who just went storming off down the hallway like a bull with a red flag up his butt? He's pretty... touchy right now. And I'm guessing, by some of the stuff he said in Sue's office, that you're maybe not his favorite person in the whole wide world. And I know he doesn't like your brother that much. So maybe you'd better just steer clear, until he cools down some."

And this? This is the last thing he needs to hear right now. About Karofsky, about himself, about Finn, about anything. "Finn's not my brother," he says, hitching his bag up on his shoulder and just barely managing to meet Coach Beiste's worried eyes. "Yes, our parents are together, but nothing's official. At least not yet. And don't worry about me getting too close to Karofsky. Believe me, that's the last thing I want to do. Ever."

He can't quite hold back a reflexive shudder at the thought of what happened the last time he got close to Karofsky, and Coach Beiste's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Might not stop him trying to get close to you," she says, and God, like Kurt doesn't already know that. "And if he does, I want you to let me or Mr. A know about it. Okay? As soon as it happens."

He's half-tempted just to brush her off, the same way he would if it were Mr. Schue or Ms. Pillsbury, but there's something about her face that stops him. She really wants this, is the thing. She wants to help. And even if Kurt knows for a fact that she's never gone through half of what he has -- she is, after all, roughly five times his size -- there's something he can relate to, in that. "I will," he says, and musters up a smile for her. "Could I... Could I be excused? I need to talk to Mr. Anderson about something. You know, homework."

"Sure," she says, and lets go of his shoulder. "But I mean it, kiddo. Karofsky comes near you, you come find me. Got that?"

"Duly noted," he murmurs, and slips past her. Because yes, this sounds serious, and yes, he's worried. But honestly, if this year has taught him anything, it's that he needs to take life one crisis at a time. He can't worry about what Karofsky might do, right now. He's more worried about Mr. Anderson's tumor, and what that's doing, right now. Both to him and to his son.

 

*

 

He hangs up the phone and leans against the wall of the empty astronomy room, just to catch his breath for a moment. Of course, today would be the day he'd get those test results back. After that nightmarish conversation in Sue's office and the ensuing meltdown of all of his plans and... Well. That's what he gets for trying to color inside the lines for a change. 

And now there's this, which he hardly knows how to handle, and despite himself, he can't help but wish that it had come on another day. Before or after; it hardly signifies either way. Just... 

If he could just deal with one crisis at a time. 

There's a quiet knock on the doorframe; Ben opens his eyes and turns his head and is not at all surprised to see Kurt Hummel staring back at him with wide eyes. "Mr. Anderson?" he asks, taking one tentative step into the room. "Is everything all right?"

"I'm going to assume that Blaine told you," he says, as Kurt creeps a little closer. "About the... ah, the _tumor_."

Kurt nods, quick and nervous and birdlike. "Was that... Was that the doctor? Calling you just now?"

Ben swallows hard. "Yes."

There's a moment when Kurt studies his face, then reaches a conclusion and steps in a little closer, reaching out but not quite touching him. "When my mother was sick," he says, and then stops, as if he needs to catch his breath. Ben knows he should interject here, but somehow he can't quite get the words out in time. "There are support groups, and all kinds of different treatments, and -- We can get past this. We can --"

"It's benign," Ben says, forcing the words out before Kurt can get himself any more worked up than he already is. 

Kurt falls back a little bit, his eyes wide and his mouth shaped around the word "Oh."

Ben nods. "Yes. That was my reaction, too. Which is silly, really, but I suppose I just... Well. I wanted to prepare myself for the worst. Perhaps I was a little too prepared, in the end."

"Believe me," Kurt says, quietly, heading over to one of the desks and dropping into it, gracefully. "I know how that goes."

Ben follows him, but doesn't sit. Strangely, the tumor wrapped around his spine is no less painful for being benign than it had been when he thought it was cancer. "I'd prefer it if you let me tell Blaine myself," he says, quietly. "My odds of surviving this are much higher now than I thought they were, but. They drop down to virtually nil if my son isn't the first to hear the good news."

Kurt gives him a small smile. "Don't worry," he says. "I can keep a secret."

"I noticed," Ben says, and Kurt's expression turns a little guilty, his eyes dropping to the floor. "For what it's worth, Kurt, I give you my word that what happened with Karofsky had nothing to do you with you. He was failing one of my classes, I needed Sue to approve my request to have his eligibility for football revoked, and... Well. I suppose she was swept away in the moment; she seems the sort to do badly with a little bit of power."

"I noticed," Kurt says, although he doesn't look up.

Ben rests his hand on Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt gives him a quick glance from the corner of his eye. "I may not approve of how you're handling this... situation, with you and Karofsky," Ben says, trying to phrase things as delicately as he possibly can. "But, for now, I'm going to continue to let you handle it. In your own way. Although you should know that if I feel things are escalating beyond your ability to deal with them, I will take whatever action I feel is necessary."

Kurt huffs out a quiet laugh. "Not worried Blaine will kill you for it?" he asks.

Ben just shrugs. "He'll be angry with me, but he won't kill me," he says. "Now, if something really were to happen to you, and I didn't at least try to stop it... Well, that's a different story altogether."

Kurt's smile broadens, and he flushes a little bit; he doesn't answer otherwise, but that's all right. Honestly, Ben's just glad he's not being given the brush-off; Blaine wouldn't have handled such a bald statement of intent with nearly so much grace. But perhaps he's just distracted by the implied compliment. 

Either way, he's not going to let his advantage slide now that he's gotten it.

"Come on," he says, and pats Kurt's shoulder once, a little awkwardly, before drawing back. "I'll walk you to your car."

"Worried about escalation so soon?" Kurt asks, and his tone is light enough, but there's just enough tension underneath to let Ben know that Kurt really is alarmed by all of this, deep down. As well he should be.

"Yes," he says, and Kurt gives him another little glance, this one more nervous than the first. "Kurt. My reasons for attempting to revoke Karofsky's athletic eligibility had nothing to do with you, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't think you'd be the first to feel the effect of it. If anything should happen to you because of this, then it would be at least partially because of me. And I would hate to have to carry that on my conscience."

Kurt nods, standing slowly and pulling his bag up onto his shoulder. He looks at Ben for a few seconds, all wide, guileless eyes, then reaches out and very gently squeezes Ben's arm. "I'm glad you don't have cancer," Kurt says, softly.

"I am too," Ben says, and when Kurt lets go of him and turns for the door, he follows.

 

*

 

"I'm gonna try to get in there tomorrow," he says, and doesn't bother to hide the excitement in his voice. "I mean, not to try anything -- I'd have to be pretty stupid to try anything in a school, you know, all those people around. But just talk to him a little, see if I can get some one-on-one time. You know, get a feel for him. Figure out how he ticks." 

He sounds downright gleeful about getting to finally do something, and it's funny, really -- she's always figured Arzt would be the mildest of them all. He's not a torturer or the daughter of a mob boss or even a down-on-his-luck construction worker from the big, scary city. Just some chemistry teacher from the middle of nowhere, and yet he's the only one who seems to be genuinely enjoying this.

Of course, that's probably just because he doesn't know what he's doing, and therefore doesn't realize what could go wrong. Which doesn't exactly fill Juliet with reassurance.

"I thought you said you already knew how he ticked," she says, bracing the phone between her shoulder and her ear so she can reach into her kitchen cabinets for a glass. "Since you're a teacher, and he's a teacher, and so you understand him better than the rest of us could."

"Well." Arzt sputters for a moment, and Juliet rolls her eyes, grateful that they're doing this over the phone and he can't see her. "Not that that's not -- But he's not _really_ a teacher, is he? I mean, you said it yourself. All his papers are forged. They'd have to be. I mean, the guy never even went to high school, for Christ's sake. So how's a guy like that supposed to be a teacher?"

"Don't know, but he's doing it," she points out, shuffling the phone again so she can pour herself a glass of wine without having to drop it. "And he's been doing it since he left the Island. Which, I'd like to remind you, was ten years ago."

"I know," Arzt says, quietly.

"Which means that he's been successfully dodging capture for the last ten years," she continues. The problem with Arzt is that it's never enough to make the point; she has to hammer it home. There used to be a time when she didn't enjoy it so much. "Dodging _us_ for ten years. You spent long enough on the Island to know what we're like, Dr. Arzt. You've been to the Flame. How long do you think you could avoid that kind of surveillance? You know, speaking as a high school graduate. And an actual teacher."

"Thank you, Juliet," Arzt says, a little louder this time. "I think you've made your point now." He sighs, before adding, a little pleadingly, "Look, I've gotten us this far, right? Where would we be right now, if it wasn't for me? I got us this opportunity, didn't I?"

"Your son got us this opportunity," Juliet retorts. "Which is why we need to be especially careful now. Because if we fail, then he'll be just as exposed as the rest of us. And as cavalier as you've been about his safety throughout all of this, I really don't think you want to make him a target. Ben Linus might not look like much, but he's --"

"I know!" Arzt snaps. "Okay? I know. I know all of this. I know. I'm just saying, you could be happy about the progress we've made for a change, instead of constantly harping about how far we have to go. Or are you constitutionally incapable of being happy?"

Juliet glances over at the refrigerator. There's a picture of her sister there, taken (if the timestamp is to be trusted) five months ago. Her bald head is covered with a scarf, and she's thin and pale, but Julian is in her lap, feeding her ice cream from a long plastic spoon, and she's smiling like nothing could possibly be wrong. "I'll get back to you on that," Juliet says, quietly. "When this is over with."

Arzt lets out a sound that might almost be a laugh. "Don't bother," he says. "Believe me, when this is over, I'm not gonna want to see a single one of you yahoos ever again in my life. Not even the damn baby."

"I'm sure we'd all be happy to oblige," Juliet retorts, her eyes still fixed on the picture of her sister. God, she just misses her so _much_. She'd do anything to see her once more, just once. "When this is over. But it's not. Not yet."

"Not yet," Arzt echoes. "But it will be. Soon. And when it is, you'll all be thanking me."

"If you say so," Juliet says. The truth is, the more Arzt insists that he's got this thing pegged, the less certain she is of success. And it's probably just that, after five years of being told to wait just a little longer, she's given up on ever truly being free. And it certainly doesn't help that communication with the Island has gotten more and more sporadic over the last few months, to the point where she wonders if there'll even be anyone to pass Ben and Blaine to if they do manage to snag them. But mostly, she thinks it's just Arzt. She doesn't like him, doesn't trust him. Even if the man in charge has absolute faith in him. Juliet's got her doubts. 

Arzt just sighs. "Fine. You want to be a pessimist, that's fine. Me, I'm telling you -- this is going to _work_."

Juliet takes a deep breath, and follows it with another sip of her wine. She's going to miss this, when they pull her back to the Island. Real wine, with real labels on it -- not those black and white Dharma Initiative bottles. "Tell me that _after_ you've talked to him," she suggests. "But not at the school. When we're at the school --"

"We don't know each other," Arzt finishes. "Like that's any different from now. And soon, we won't even have to pretend."

"Can't wait for that," she says, and means it. "Call me tomorrow night and tell me how it went."

"Yes, ma'am," Arzt says, and hangs up without bothering with goodbye.

Juliet sets her phone down on the kitchen counter and turns back to the refrigerator, to the picture of her sister. Five years, and sometimes every second feels like an eternity. She doesn't want to keep waiting. She's not even sure she can, most days. And if it wasn't for the ever-present threat of surveillance, of Mikhail and all his cameras, she wouldn't.

But she does what she has to. She's good at that.

The problem is, she has a sneaking suspicion that Ben Linus might just be a little bit better.


	10. With Friends Like These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn has a plan. Sam and Quinn have their doubts. Ben has too many friends. And Blaine has a decision to make.

"I'm just saying," Finn says, leaning forward and almost sticking his elbows in his predigested spinach foam. It's funny; up until last week, Sam felt self-conscious about his sack lunches. Everyone else was heading up to the lunch line and coming back with trays of pizza and tots and big bowls of that chocolate pudding with the little crushed peanuts on it, and he had protein shakes and hard-boiled eggs and frigging sprouts. Now he might as well be carrying big bags of candy, the way the other guys look at his food. "Look, we've all seen how bad Karofsky can be. Remember last year, with the Lady GaGa assigment? I thought he was gonna _kill_ Kurt."

"And Tina," Mike adds, quietly, and Artie shoots him a funny look. 

"Yeah, but see, what I'm saying is that he knows that he'll get in trouble for it now, right?" Puck says, looking around at the other guys. "I mean, Karofsky's dumb, but he's not that dumb. If he knows people are watching him, he's not gonna do anything. He can't."

Artie blinks at him. "Aren't you the guy who tore up Principal Figgins's office the week he got out of juvie?" he asks. "With your parole officer standing right there? I mean, I'm just saying."

"Well, yeah, but that was --" Puck splutters a little bit. "I mean, okay, yeah, that maybe wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done, but they were really pissing me off. Like, _really_ pissing me off. So I don't think --"

"And Kurt pisses Karofsky off," Finn says. "I mean, not that... I don't think that he _tries_ to piss Karofsky off, it's just that, like... Like he pisses him off just by breathing. And you saw how Karofsky was when Coach had him clean out his locker; it's not like he's not already mad, and I just... I mean, what do you think's gonna happen the first time Kurt wears something sparkly to school? Karofsky's gonna rip his head off."

"You could just ask him not to wear sparkly things," Artie suggests. "That might help."

This time, it's Mike's turn to give Artie the funny look. "Remember when you told Tina she should stop wearing black and try to dress sexier?" he asks. "I think that was actually a good idea, compared to this."

"I'm just saying," Finn says, leaning in. "I mean, I get that Mr. Anderson and Coach Beiste and everyone are trying to help and all, but what if... I mean, what if they just wound up making it worse? What if Karofsky just... snaps? He's not gonna go for a teacher or a coach or the principal or whoever. He's probably not even gonna go for any of us. He's gonna go for Kurt. And that could be really, really bad."

"Finn's right," Sam says, and is a little taken aback when everyone turns to stare at him. "What? He _is_. Look, everything Karofsky does is targeted, right? He picks on people who are... lower on the social ladder than he is. New kids, people on the glee club, that Jacob kid with the poofy hair... Except now that he's off football, he doesn't have as many people he can attack. Because people aren't going to be as afraid of him. They'll be more willing to fight back."

"Oh my God," Puck says, his eyes going wide. "He's right. Remember when I shaved my head? This is the same thing. Only without the mole."

Sam looks at Puck for a second, then decides he's better off not asking. Because he really, really doesn't want to know. "Except a guy like Karofsky, he's not gonna stop. Because he needs it too much. Needs to feel like he's better than someone. And pushing people around's kind of the only thing he has that makes him feel that way. So he's gonna have to go after easier targets. And I hate to say it, but... Kurt's kind of the easiest target there is."

Artie nods. "I mean, technically, I'm an easier target," he says. "What with the whole 'can't walk' thing, and everything? But something about the chair holds them back. Kurt... Kurt doesn't have that. If anything, the fact that he's gay just makes it that much worse."

"Yeah," Mike says. "It's like... I mean, especially with him and Karofsky. It's not like Karofsky's just pushing him around because he can. It's like... It's like he really wants to hurt him. Bad."

"Exactly," Finn says. "And I don't wanna see that happen. And I'm pretty sure you guys don't want to see it happen either. Kurt's a good guy. And he's one of us. And we need to protect him."

There's a long, surprisingly heavy pause.

"So what do we do?" Puck asks, finally. "Just go all mob violence on him and take him out? Because usually I wouldn't have a problem with that, but we'd have to make sure it's not somewhere that Zizes has a camera hidden, and I'm gonna have to find a ski mask. And gloves. And one of those things they use on tv so I sound like Darth Vader, so no one recognizes my voice."

Finn shakes his head. "No. Dude, we're not gonna... _No_. All I'm asking is that you guys keep an eye on Kurt, in the hallway, and make sure he's not... you know, alone. Anywhere."

Mike frowns at that, leaning in a little. "There's just one problem," he says. "We're all on the football team. What're we gonna do when we're all in practice and Kurt and Karofsky aren't?"

"I'm gonna have Rachel talk to the girls," Finn says. "I figure between all of us and Kurt's dad --"

"And Kurt's Warbler," Artie adds. "I mean, if his dad's the one who got Karofsky kicked off the football team, chances are he already knows what's going on. And him and Kurt... I mean, I'm just saying. If it were Brittany, I'd want to keep an eye on her. I doubt it's different for Kurt's boyfriend, even if they are... You know. _Boy_ friends."

Finn flushes a little bit and rubs the back of his neck; it's not the first time he's done this, either. It's like, every time someone mentions that Kurt and the Dalton kid might be dating, Finn gets all embarrassed. Sam's not sure what that's about, but he's not totally sure he likes it. "Right," Finn says. "Yeah. 'Cause they're, like, friends and stuff. He'll totally help. And so I figure if we're all in it together, then Kurt should be pretty safe, right? Except we have to do it _together_. All of us." He looks around at everyone, finally settling his eyes on Sam. "So what do you say?"

"I'm in," Sam replies, immediately, and holds his fist out to the center of the table. Because the thing is, he doesn't always get this whole... thing with Finn and Kurt. Yeah, they kind of seem like friends some of the time, and their parents are dating, which seems to make them almost-brothers, but they don't always seem like they like each other that much. And Finn gets weird about things like Kurt's Warbler, and just Kurt kind of being around guys in general, and sometimes Sam wonders if Finn is as okay with the whole gay thing as he says he is. But in the end, Sam's pretty sure that that makes it even _more_ important for him to be one of the guys looking after Kurt. Because he likes Kurt. Because Kurt _deserves_ to have people stand up for him.

And because, if he's honest with himself, Sam doesn't totally trust Finn to do it.

"I'm in, too," Mike says, bumping his fist up against Sam's. "Kurt shouldn't be a target just because he expresses himself. That's not fair."

Artie sighs. "I just hope they continue to respect the chair," he says, and sticks his fist out. 

They all turn to look at Puck, and he hesitates, but only for a second. Then he sighs and sticks his fist in. "This goes against everything I have ever stood for," he says. "But fine. I'll be a squealer. For Hummel. But as soon as this probation business is over? I'm kicking the crap out of Karofsky the old-fashioned way, and I don't care who finds out."

"Works for me," Finn says, grinning, and finally puts his fist in, tapping against everyone else's. He saves Sam for last, their eyes locking for just a second, and Sam can't tell if this is going to turn into just another competition for them, or what. But maybe it's better that way. If that's what it takes to get Finn to do the right thing... He can be okay with that. He can totally be okay with that.

 

*

 

The thing is? She's not entirely okay with this.

It's not that she has a problem with the idea of protecting Kurt. She's sure that Kurt will have a problem with the idea of being protected, once he figures it out, but that's not something she's too bothered by. Whether or not he likes it, it's the right thing to do. Honestly, it's something that they should have been doing for a long, long time, and that's really what bothers her. Because they didn't do it, before. Not Finn, not Rachel, not herself or Puckerman or Mercedes... not any of them. And now that they are doing it... well.

She has to wonder if they're doing it for the right reasons.

She catches Sam's eye before she slides into the chair next to Rachel's, crossing her legs primly. "So I talked to Santana and Brittany," she says, folding her hands on her lap and looking down at the front of the room. Kurt is sandwiched between Puck and Artie, looking vaguely uncomfortable, and Quinn has to feel just a little sorry for him. Whatever the two of them are talking about, she doubts it's anything that Kurt wants to hear. Still, at least they're trying. 

"And?" Rachel asks, her voice a little sharp.

"Well, Santana started off at insulting, and it went downhill from there," Quinn says, examining her nails. "But then Brittany said she'd do it. So then Santana said she'd do it, too, as long as she didn't have to cry or hug anyone." She leaves out the part where Brittany immediately turned around and hugged Santana, and the way Santana's face lit up when she did it. Santana's always been that way, when it's Brittany. It's not even really worth mentioning.

"Good," Rachel says, and she sounds enthusiastic enough, but when Quinn turns to look at her, there's something strange in her expression, in the way she looks at Kurt. She almost looks... betrayed. "Well. I'm glad that we're all willing to rally around Kurt like this. I'm sure he'll be happy about it, too. Since it's obvious that he still doesn't realize how much we care about him."

Quinn studies Rachel for a few seconds, feeling her eyebrows draw together into an unattractive frown. She forces them to smooth out again; no point in getting wrinkles if she can help it. "Please tell me that you're not doing this to prove a point," she sighs, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand.

Rachel straightens, smoothing her skirt down and staring at the doorway. "I'm doing this because Kurt needs us," Rachel says, chin defiantly lifted. "And while I would have preferred it if he'd actually come to us, instead of turning to someone he met two weeks ago, that doesn't mean I'm going to abandon him in his hour of need. It's important that Kurt has friends to turn to. _True_ friends."

"So that's what this is about," Quinn says, and watches Rachel shift uncomfortably in her seat. "You're still angry about Kurt's Warbler."

"I'm not angry," Rachel says. Unsurprisingly, she sounds totally angry. "I'm _concerned_. Concerned that Kurt feels so isolated at this school that he'd rather risk making a dangerous alliance with our enemy than turn to us for --"

"Do you know why I started the Unwed Mothership Connection, Rachel?" Quinn asks, and feels a small sense of gratification when Rachel turns to gape at her. Of course, no one mentions the fact that Quinn was pregnant, Quinn herself least of all. And usually, she appreciates that. It was a lapse of judgement on her part, one that could have ruined not only her reputation, but her entire life. She's happy to forget about it, most of the time. But sometimes, for some reason, the way everyone just brushes over it fills her with the strong urge to start screaming. 

"It wasn't because I didn't know that you guys were my friends," she continues, as Rachel stares at her, eyes wide as saucers, "or because I thought you didn't care. But you didn't _understand_. You didn't have to go to the bathroom five times an hour; you didn't have to sit through class with a trashcan next to you for fear of puking. You didn't have to deal with the fact that your friends' parents were using you as an example of all the bad things that happen when you don't use protection. And as thankful as I was for you guys, for the way you rallied around me, and as grateful as I was to know that you cared... Sometimes I just needed to be around people who were going through the same things. People who understood."

Her eyes settle on Kurt again; his look of discomfort has changed into one of vague horror, and she wonders if he'll tell his Warbler friend about this, when he gets the chance. If he'll roll his eyes and talk about how misguided they all are; if he and his friend will laugh about the rest of them behind their backs. Probably he will. She certainly wouldn't blame him if he did. 

"The only difference between me and Kurt," she says, "is that I could walk into the cafeteria at McKinley and pull out five girls who were every bit as pregnant as I was without even having to think about it. Kurt doesn't have that option."

Rachel stares at her a little longer, then drops her gaze down to her hands. "Quinn," she whispers. "I --"

Quinn sighs. "Look, Rachel, I don't think protecting Kurt is a bad idea. At all. In fact, I think it's the best thing that we can do for him. Because it's what we _can_ do. But what we can't do is understand. And if this Warbler kid can do that, then we need to let him." She watches Kurt lean forward and bury his head in his hands, Puck and Artie still talking over his head, and can't help but smile. "Anyway, I think it's a good thing. That Kurt's got more friends. Right now, I think he could use all the friends he can get."

There's a long pause, and then Rachel takes a deep breath and asks, quietly, "Are _we_ friends, Quinn? You and me. Are we... friends?"

Quinn thinks about that one for a moment, and then she smiles. "Maybe," she says, and Rachel smiles back at her, her whole face lighting up. "I'll get back to you on that."

Rachel's still beaming when Miss Holliday walks into the classroom, five minutes late.

 

*

 

The problem is that the guy's just got too damn many friends. 

Yeah, so it's not like the whole school's flocking around him or anything. Mostly it's just that football coach, forcing her way into their private conversation and trying to make the whole thing about David's behavior in the locker room or whatever, when it's not like Leslie even cares about that. Football was always David's thing, something he wanted to do to be popular, to be liked. Leslie never could get him to see that it doesn't matter whether or not people like you. As long as you're smarter than they are, they'll respect you, and that's the most important thing. 

But anyway. It's not like football's important. It's not even like getting David back in Mr. Linus's or Mr. Anderson's or.... whatever the guy's calling himself, it doesn't really matter, and his calculus class doesn't matter either, not really. David can take that again next year, if he has to; it's not like he has to take AP Calc to get into a good school, plain old calculus is good enough. What's important -- what he came here to do in the first place -- is to get Linus talking. To get under his skin a little bit. To get him to start trusting Leslie. And to do that, Leslie needs to get a little quality alone time with the guy. 

And he's having a hell of time actually getting to that point. First, with that damned football coach insisting on sitting in on their private meeting, with all her _thoughts_ and her _concerns_. 

And now that she's finally out of the way, Linus has suddenly decided that he and Leslie need to go talk to the damned principal. 

"You have to understand, Mr. Karofsky," he says, steering Leslie down the crowded hallway, and Jesus, the guy's a nerd. There's no other way around it. Prissy little glasses, prissy little cardigan sweater, prissy hands and a prissy voice. "It's not that I disagree with you. All I wanted was for David to get a little bit of a wake-up call, to realize that as much as he might enjoy football, his academics should always come first."

"Exactly," Leslie says, because he figures this is pretty basic. The more he agrees with the guy, the more the guy will like him. The more the guy likes him, the easier it'll be to get a second meeting. And then a third, if he has to. God help them both if there winds up being a fourth time. "Exactly. I'm glad you see eye-to-eye with me on this, Mr. Anderson."

"But the problem is, my opinion isn't exactly the one that counts." Linus catches Leslie by the elbow, dragging him out of the way of a group of giggling cheerleaders. Leslie lets his eyes drift just a little, watching them run, their skirts flipping up behind them, long tan legs and little white sneakers. One thing he misses about Tustin, about those days when he was just some schlub of a teacher, and that's the cheerleaders. "Principal Sylvester made the decision to take him out of calculus. And while I may not agree with her, I don't have the power to override her decision on my own."

"So don't do it on your own," Leslie says. "Go to the school board. Get them to make her back down. Hell, get 'em to fire her. From what you're telling me, there's no way this woman's qualified to be principal anyway. They can give the job to someone who cares about these kids." He hesitates for a second, then decides to just go for the ego stroke. Guy like this, he'll probably lap it right up and ask for more. "Someone like you, maybe."

Linus just laughs and shakes his head. "Like that'd ever happen," he says, but he's smiling a little. And yeah, that's gonna be the key to this whole thing. Leslie can feel it. Give the guy a little positive reinforcement, and he'll roll right over and give himself up. "Who's gonna listen to a guy like me?"

"I would," Leslie says. Linus shoots him a disbelieving look. "What? I'm serious. And I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one. That Coach Beiste seemed pretty impressed by you."

"Coach Beiste is..." Linus shakes his head. "Coach Beiste is a remarkably open-minded woman. A quality which is, unfortunately, all too rare at this school. I doubt we'd find anyone else who'd --"

_We_. The guy said _we_. It's the first sign that Leslie's finally getting his hooks into him, and he's just about to press the advantage when some leggy blonde teacher comes rushing up to them, grabbing at Linus's arm. 

"You have got to see this," she says, dragging Linus several steps ahead of Leslie, before the guy finally manages to dig his heels in and pull her to a stop. "Mercedes Jones just shoved like a full bag of tots up the tailpipe of Sue's Le Car, and it's like the funniest thing ever, seriously. Oh, and hey, do you have a camera on your phone? Because mine's just a prepaid, so it doesn't have, like, the bells and whistles or anything, and we really need to record this. You know. For posterity."

"Wait," Linus says, shaking free of the blonde's hold. Which seems like kind of a dumb thing to do, in Leslie's opinion. Yeah, the woman's a little less curvy than Leslie'd normally prefer, but still. Those are some damn fine legs. "Wait just a moment, Holly. What on Earth are you talking about?"

She slaps him lightly on the shoulder, and the guy actually frowns at her. Seriously, what a complete moron. "Pre-paid phones, Ben. You know, so you don't have to sign up for some kind of contract or get locked into a plan or... whatever, you know what I mean. All that commitment stuff."

Linus sighs, pushing his thinning hair back with his hand. "Forget about the phone, Holly," he says, his voice a little strained, patience obviously starting to wear short. And according to Juliet, this should be the part where Leslie starts feeling like he's gonna piss himself. And yeah, he might piss himself _laughing_ , but he's pretty sure that's not the same thing. "What do you mean, Mercedes Jones filled Sue Sylvester's tailpipe with tots?"

"Uh, pretty self-explanatory there, Ben," the blonde says, rolling her eyes. Legs _and_ sass; Leslie sure as hell wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers. Linus, however, obviously would. Seriously, the man's no kind of threat; Leslie's gotta wonder why a geek like this is so important in the first place. "I let her out of class, she grabbed the tots from her locker or wherever she had them, went out to the parking lot, and --"

"You _let_ her do that?" Linus repeats, his face a mask of shock and disappointment. "Oh, Holly..."

The blonde just shrugs, looking back at Leslie for the first time like she's looking for support. "What?" she says. "I thought it was funny. Besides, it's important for these kids to learn how to stand up for their rights. It'll be good for her."

"No," Linus says, and he sounds outright dismayed, and Jesus, if this isn't the funniest thing Leslie's ever seen. "No, it really won't." And then it's his turn to grab at the blonde, pulling her up the hallway like he's about to say something he doesn't want Leslie to hear. Fortunately, Leslie's always had damn good ears; it came in handy, back in his teaching days. "You saw what Sue did to David Karofsky," Linus hisses, glancing back over his shoulder. "He hadn't even done anything to her; she just wanted to make an example. And you encouraged a student to tamper with Sue's car? What do you think is going to happen, when Sue finds out? What do you think she'll do to that girl?"

"I don't know, like, detention or something?" the blonde asks, and Linus buries his face in his hands with a groan. The blonde watches him for a second, and her face falls. "I screwed up, didn't I?"

"Yes," Linus says. "You really did."

Her shoulders sag. "Guess I should probably do something about that, huh," she says.

Linus just shakes his head. "It'd be appreciated." 

The blonde sighs. "Well," she says, sounding a little glum. "I'll just go... Figure out what I'm going to do, then. Thanks for the advice, Ben." She turns around, walks a few steps, turns back, and says, "Hey, but seriously. _Does_ your phone have a camera on it? I mean, if I'm going to get fired over this, I might as well --"

" _Holly_."

"Right," she says. "Off to be a responsible and reliable adult, then. Catch you on the flip side, Ben."

Leslie swears he hears her mutter the word "boring" under her breath as she walks away, and it takes everything he has not to crack up. But he manages it, manages to walk up to Linus and say "Thought you handled that pretty well," without even really sounding that sarcastic, and he figures that right there establishes him as one hell of a spy.

Linus shrugs. "Holly's a sweet woman, she really is," he says. "Just... Well. Of course it's always tempting, to want to be the cool teacher, to be a friend to your students rather than an authority figure, but. We do have our responsibilities."

There's no way in hell this guy has ever had to worry about being the _cool_ teacher. No way in hell. "See, and that's what this school needs," Leslie says. He reaches out to touch Linus on the shoulder, and Linus goes stiff and tense under his hand. Leslie doesn't pull back -- Linus will relax; he'll wait him out. "Someone who understands his responsibilities. Someone like you."

"Well," Linus says again, his voice a little sharper, and then he slips away from Leslie's hand. "In the meantime, we've still got Sue to contend with. And if I were you, I'd talk to her now, before she finds out about the --"

"Nah," Leslie says. "I got a buddy on the school board; I'm gonna talk to him about the whole situation, see what he says. But it was good talking to you, Mr. Anderson. Nice to see there's someone around here who gives a damn."

Linus inclines his head, a nervous little nod. "If there's anything I can do for you, or for David, don't hesitate to ask," he says.

Leslie grins at him, because _that_. That is what he wanted. "I'll take you up on that sometime," he says, before turning to walk away.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

He can't wait to tell Juliet.

 

*

 

He taps lightly on the door to the nurse's office before he enters. Juliet glances up from the stack of pamphlets she's reorganizing, smiles at him. "I saw you with Karofsky's father," she says, lightly. "How many broken bones do you have?"

Ben just shakes his head, stepping more fully into the room and closing the door behind him. "He's not so bad," he says, quietly. It's not true, of course. Karofsky isn't just bad; he's awful. The most ham-handed amateur it's ever been Ben's misfortune to meet. Really, if he's the most dangerous person the Island could send after him, he and Blaine are quite safe. "Lays it on a bit thick, maybe. Apparently, I should be principal, and not Sue."

Juliet wrinkles her nose at him. "Did you tell him about the clause in her contract that specifies that she's legally allowed to torch the school if her authority is ever usurped?" she asks. "Because he should probably know about that before he starts the revolution, and not after."

"I wasn't sure he'd believe me," Ben says, smiling back at her. He's a little surprised at how much he's missed this, the way he and Juliet talk to each other, the shared sense of humor and the camaraderie. He doesn't get enough of that. "Anyway, he's harmless, really. Thinks he can win over the whole school board just because one of his golf buddies has a seat. I'm not worried."

There's a crash outside the nurse's office, and Sue starts screaming. 

"Okay," he says. "I'm a little worried." 

He pulls the door open just a crack, hears the words "-- _rare and priceless 1979 Le Car_ \--" and quickly shuts the door again.

Juliet gives him a look that's fond, amused, and concerned all at once, and he really has missed this. Too much. Far too much. "I don't want to know," she says, still smiling. "Do I?"

"Not really," Ben says, but he's still smiling, too. Which is strange, because he's really not particularly happy that Holly decided to use a student to cause this particular distraction, and it's highly likely that he's going to have to do some serious maneuvering to rescue Mercedes Jones's academic career when all is said and done. But Juliet is smiling at him, and so he smiles back. Apparently, it's not any more complicated than that.

She cocks her head and studies him a little bit longer, then sets down her jar of tongue depressors and comes a little closer to him, leaning against the exam table. "So," she says. "You came here looking for a place to hide, is that it?"

"No, of course not," Ben says. Something smashes against the door, and he flinches slightly. "Well, maybe." Juliet gives him that look again, and he sighs, leaning back against the door. "Actually, I believe I owe you an apology."

Outside the doorway, Sue shouts something about Gloria Allred, and Juliet's eyes widen.

"Not --" Ben raises his hands to forestall any fighting. "This has nothing to do with Sue. It's..." He takes a deep breath. "You were right. About Blaine. I should have told him from the start and not tried to... I shouldn't have hidden the truth from him. You were right."

Juliet folds her arms, and there's something different in the way she studies him this time. Less fond, and more... angry, somehow. Which is not entirely what Ben expected. "It's benign," she says, her voice tense. Terse, in a way that she never is. "Isn't it? Your tumor. It's benign."

Ben hesitates, just for a moment, not really sure he wants to answer. "Would it be different if it wasn't?" he asks.

"Would you be apologizing if it wasn't?" she shoots back, turning to bend over her tongue depressors, keeping her face hidden. 

"No," Ben says, simply, and Juliet stiffens. "If only because I'd be too busy trying to console my son to do so." Her hands falter in their work; she sets the jar back down, carefully. "Although you would still have been right, in the end. If that helps at all."

Juliet bows her head. "He had the right to know," she says, her voice very quiet. "No matter what you thought you were doing, no matter how much you thought you were _helping_ \--" She spits the word out with a bitterness that's almost astonishing, and for the first time, Ben realizes that he knows absolutely nothing about this woman. "He had the right to know."

Ben watches her, fighting with some strong emotion, and he wishes he knew what it was, and why she feels this way. But Juliet never talks about her life, and he never presses her -- it's one of the things they have in common, one of the reasons why her company is so much easier than that of other people. Of course, he's starting to regret that now, but it's too late to try to change things. Her guard's too high; he'd get nothing from her. "No one's arguing with that," he says, trying to placate.

Juliet takes one deep breath, then another, and finally straightens, pushing away from the countertop she's been leaning on. "I think Sue's calmed down," she says, at last. "You'd better get out while it's safe."

He's tempted to say something ridiculous, that he won't leave until she's accepted his apology, or something like that. But he doubts it would end well, and even if he thought it would... There are roles in life that he is eminently suited to play. This is not one of them. "Of course," he says. "Thank you. For... letting me hide for a bit."

Then he turns, opens the door, and leaves without a backward glance. He still has Mercedes Jones to see to. And then, too, he has a few things left to confess to his son.

Juliet was right. Blaine deserves to know everything.

 

*

 

For a few seconds, all Blaine can do is stare at his father, wide-eyed. His throat is suddenly dry, his tongue thick in his mouth; his hands, still loosely clasped in his father's, are sweating. His father's last words ring in the air. _This is your choice, Blaine._

"I..." 

He takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. 

He swallows hard. 

"I don't know what to say," he whispers.

His father's eyes are serious behind his glasses, but there's the smallest trace of a smile playing around his lips, and he looks... He looks proud, and Blaine doesn't know what he did to deserve it. Only that it's somehow terrifying, the weight of that pride. He's not sure if it's anything he can ever live up to. "Just... know that this isn't a decision I came to lightly, Blaine," his father says, his voice soft, reassuring. "But you're old enough now to start making decisions about your life, and what you want it to be. And I think that this is the appropriate place to start."

And Blaine has to believe him, because he has always believed his father. _Will_ always believe his father. It's just... He's just so... 

"Can I... Can I think about it?" he asks, his voice sounding somehow very small and very young. 

It's just... It's never been up to him, before. His father has never asked, and he's never really wanted to be asked. And now... Now he doesn't know what to do.

His father smiles at him. "Take all the time you need," he says, then leans in and kisses Blaine on the forehead, like he used to do when Blaine was small, and for a moment, Blaine wishes he could go back to that. Back to the times when it wasn't up to him.

But it is, now, and there's nothing he can do about that.

_This is your choice._


	11. The Incident (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in a very long time, Kurt Hummel is genuinely, purely happy. It isn't going to last very long.

This is the right thing to do.

He's thought it over, and then over again. Hell, he even prayed about it -- not that he's that spiritual a guy, ever since... Well, ever since. But he took a little time, a few nights back, closed his eyes and opened his heart and asked for one last reason, one final voice to join the chorus in his head telling him that this was what was best, not just for him but for everyone. And that night, he had a dream. And when he woke up from that dream, he knew. 

This is the right thing to do. 

"Burt," Carole says, blinking at him as he pulls into the school's parking lot. "Burt, honey, I'm going to be late for work. Whatever Kurt forgot, I'm sure you can bring it to him after --"

He shuts her up with a kiss -- not a hard one, not anything sloppy, either, but the kind of kiss that always works best on her, slow and sweet and with just enough pressure to let her know that he _wants_ her; not just as a warm body in his bed or as a mom for his son or a substitute for his lost Annie, but just for her, just the way she is.

"I got something to show you," he says, pulling back. Her eyes stay closed a little longer, her breath still coming out a little fast, and it's the hardest thing in the world not to smirk, because damn. The old man's still got it. "Come on. Just for a second?"

Carole's eyes finally flutter open; she's smiling too, that smile that says she knows he's up to no good and she kind of likes it. "Burt Hummel," she says. "What on earth has gotten into you?"

He shrugs and leans in to kiss her again, because he wants to and he can. "What do _you_ think's gotten into me?" he asks, and kisses her one more time, and then finally leans back to unbuckle his seatbelt and climb out of the truck. When he gets around to Carole's side to help her down, her cheeks are still flushed, and she's still smiling at him like they're kids again, and it's all brand-new. 

And this is the right thing to do. This is, without a doubt, the right thing to do.

 

*

 

If Blaine has any problem with Dalton (which he doesn't, not really), it's how strict their cellphone policy is. Blaine can carry his phone, just in case there's an emergency, but he can't really _use_ it for anything. He can read texts, usually, if he's careful, and sometimes he even manages to reply to them (as long as it's something short, like _LOL_ ), but otherwise, he can't do anything. He can't play games, he can't call people, and the most complicated thing he's ever managed to text has been the single word _Courage_.

And one word won't be enough. Not for this. But he can't say anything else, either. Not during school hours, anyway. Unless it's an emergency, which this, tragically is not.

At least, he thinks it's not.

It's just that, ever since he opened that text from his dad, saying _You should call Kurt_ , and the one after it saying _It's nothing bad, I promise_ , it's like his phone has been burning a metaphorical hole in his very real pocket. Because his dad hardly ever texts him, only when he really truly doesn't have time to call. And somehow, his dad always manages to make time, when it's important. So this can't be that big of a deal. But it has to at least be something, or his dad wouldn't have bothered to even text; he'd just wait until he got home. It's not Karofsky, or his father would have said something -- he definitely wouldn't have said it was _nothing bad_. But then Blaine can't think of what else it could be, because it's not like Kurt and his dad interact that much when they're at school, and every time they have, it's always been Karofsky-related. And the only other thing they really could interact on --

_(this is your choice, blaine)_

\-- that, okay, that is not something Blaine would ever think of as being _nothing bad_. So even with his dad's promises, Blaine's worried. He can't not be.

And none of this would be a big deal if Kurt had just texted him too; if he'd said something, anything, about what was going on with him. But it's been nothing but radio silence. Which never, ever happens, and it's just making Blaine feel itchy under his skin. Because Kurt tells him everything, and the fact that he's been sitting on some kind of secret all day and yet hasn't told... 

He knows it's stupid. Of course it's stupid. Kurt's got his friends at McKinley -- he's got his family and all of these other people that he's known forever, pretty much, and he doesn't need to tell Blaine anything. Blaine's just this guy he met a few weeks ago. And yeah, they're pretty close for all that their friendship is so new, and yeah, sometimes Kurt is so understanding and accepting that Blaine can hardly stand it, and sometimes he wants to tell Kurt everything just to get the weight of it off his shoulders, but that doesn't mean that it's real. He _feels_ it; God, he feels it so strongly sometimes. But that doesn't mean it's real.

But that doesn't mean he can just stop feeling, either. Whether or not he's got the right to be jealous of all these other people who get Kurt's secrets, whether or not he's got a right to wish and wonder and worry until he's about to crawl right out of his skin and die, it doesn't mean he can just stop.

Which is why he wolfs down his lunch in record speed and then totally bails on the Warblers, ignoring their bemused looks and dry comments as he dashes out of the cafeteria, out of the building, and makes for the grove of trees at the edge of the quad. He figures if he's far enough from the school, he won't get into too much trouble, and anyway, it's lunch, and lunch doesn't count as classtime. Or at least, he's pretty sure it doesn't.

He's already shivering as he thumbs through his contact list for Kurt's number; it's freezing out, and he thinks longingly of his heavy wool coat, still back in the building. But then Kurt's phone is ringing, and he stops thinking about it, bouncing on his toes as he waits for Kurt to pick up. 

_Come on, come on, come on..._

"This is Kurt Hummel. I'm either in class, at the shop, planning my eventual world domination, or burning all of Rachel's sweaters right now, but leave me a message and I'll call you right back."

Blaine's heart sinks; he's hanging up before he even hears the voicemail lady tell him that he can also press 9 for more options. And then he feels even worse, because now he looks weird and creepy, and Kurt's going to see that he called and didn't leave a message, and he'll probably be freaked out or maybe even worry that something's happened, which would be even worse. And Blaine thinks maybe he should call back and leave a proper message this time, just to let Kurt know that he's not going insane (even if he kind of is), but then he wonders if calling him twice in one minute is maybe a little excessive, and he can't figure out what to do at all.

Not that it matters, anyway, because Kurt calls him back before he can even open his contact list again and start staring at it. And Blaine's so startled that he almost doesn't answer; it takes him a second to figure out what's happening. He just barely manages to pick up the call before it flips over to his voicemail and the whole thing turns really ridiculous.

"Hey," he says, and tells himself that if Kurt notices how shaky his voice sounds, he can just lie and say it's because he's outside and it's freezing. Which, technically, isn't really a lie at all.

"I was _just_ thinking that I should call you," Kurt says, his voice pitching high the way it always does when he's excited, words tumbling out fast, one right after the other. "I have the _biggest_ news. Are you sitting down? I mean not that it matters, because you're going to start jumping up and down anyway, but. Guess what?"

There is no way for Blaine to possibly guess what. He tries anyway. "You got a solo for Sectionals?" he asks. 

" _God_ no," Kurt says. "Even if I had, I'm sure we'd just wind up having to change our setlist at the last minute anyway. That's what always happens. No, think _plausible_ , Blaine. Not impossible."

"You..." Blaine sighs. "You got a new brooch? Those John Fleuvogs you liked so much? Tickets to a decent production of Rent?" There's silence, and Blaine tries one last time. "Your friend Rachel's wearing something flattering that doesn't involve hand-embroidered cats?"

"No, don't I wish, not after what happened last time, and we're still thinking _plausible_ , remember?" But Kurt's voice is still fizzing with excitement when he adds, "I give up. You'll never guess it. Which I guess is kind of my fault, since I know I don't talk about my dad that much, so I'm not actually sure I even told you about Carole --"

"No, you did," Blaine says, quickly, wrapping his free arm around his chest and bouncing a little more quickly on his toes. It really is freezing, and it's not like he'd ever rush Kurt, but he's not sure how much longer he can be out here without getting in trouble (or getting pneumonia). "Remember, when I asked about the owl clock above your stove, and you said that it was hers. And that you weren't sure it fit in with the overall decor, but you didn't say anything because you wanted her to feel at home."

"Okay," Kurt says. "Okay, good, because otherwise this is going to come out of nowhere." And then he's suddenly, kind of infuriatingly silent for at least five seconds. "Blaine," he says, all breathy and intense, and Blaine just hugs himself and bounces and waits for it. "They're getting married. Carole and my dad. _Married_."

Blaine blinks at the nearest tree for a second, because... Okay. Wow. "Okay," he says. "Okay, _wow_."

There's an awkward pause, and then Kurt asks, a little hesitantly, "Isn't that exciting?"

"No," Blaine says, and then realizes what he's said and wishes he could just quietly fall into a pit of self-loathing and drown, because that was incredibly stupid, even for him. "No, I mean, of course it is. Of course. If it's... If it's exciting for you, if you're happy, then... Because it's your dad who's getting married, and it's your life, and it... So if you're happy, then..."

"I am," Kurt says, his voice firmer now. "I'm very happy, Blaine." 

"Okay," Blaine says, finally remembering how to smile. "Okay, good. Then I'm happy for you."

Kurt heaves a deep sigh into the phone, and there's a beat before he adds, "Admittedly, I'd be happier if my father had planned for a slightly longer engagement, since a week and a half isn't nearly enough time for me to --"

"A week and a half?" Blaine repeats, stunned. Because he doesn't know a lot about weddings, but he knows they take some serious planning (unless they just got married in a courthouse, which Kurt obviously wouldn't allow). A week and a half is... just...

"It's not that I don't understand why, because I do," Kurt adds, his voice getting a little softer, and Blaine thinks about heart attacks and tumors and realizes that yeah, he knows too. "And it's not that I can't do it, because I can. Of course I can. I mean, obviously I'm going to need all the help I can get --"

It's an offer, and not one Blaine's about to pass up. "Yes," he says, quickly, so quickly that Kurt laughs at him. Blaine doesn't let himself get distracted, keeps going. "Yes. Anything you need. I will help you with anything you need. I will -- " The sound of the schoolbell ringing catches him off-guard. "After school," he adds, quickly. "I will talk to you about this after school."

Kurt laughs again. "Tell you what," he says. "I'm going to the home ec room after glee gets out to start putting together some swatches and building the color scheme. Think you could meet me there?" 

"Anywhere," Blaine says, immediately. "I mean, yeah. I mean, of course. Is it... I don't think I know where that is. My dad doesn't spend a whole lot of time in the home ec room, so."

"I'll text you directions," Kurt says, still laughing. It's such a good sound, Kurt laughing like this. He sounds... he sounds so much happier than he did when Blaine met him. He just sounds... happy.

"Okay," Blaine says, grinning stupidly. Because he likes happy Kurt, is the thing. He likes it a lot. "I. Um. I have Warblers practice, right after school, but I'll be over as soon as I can. Wait for me?"

"I'll be there," Kurt says, and he still just sounds so happy, and whether it's just the wedding planning or something else entirely, Blaine just hopes it never stops. "Okay, now go. Or you'll miss class."

"Okay," Blaine says again, but he doesn't hang up.

Kurt lets out a huffing sound. "I'm hanging up on you, Blaine."

"No, you're not," Blaine says, still smiling. "I'll see you around four. Maybe, if we have time, we can --"

The bell rings again, and Blaine knows he should be running for the school, but he doesn't move.

"Okay, now I'm really hanging up," Kurt says, but he doesn't, and Blaine swears he can see Kurt grinning at his phone, and it's the best thing he's (not) seen all week, easily.

"I'm really happy for you, Kurt," he says, quietly.

"I'm happy for me too," is the immediate, tart reply. Then Kurt sighs gently into the phone, and it's freezing and Blaine is late for class and he's going to be in so much trouble, but he still thinks he could stay like this all day. "Okay. Really, really hanging up now. Go to class. I'll see you later. Bye."

And even when Kurt really has hung up (without so much as giving Blaine a chance to say goodbye), Blaine still just stands there, hidden in the trees at the edge of the quad, one arm wrapped around his own chest, shivering and bouncing on his toes. And he couldn't say just why, exactly, couldn't say what it is that's making him feel this way. It's probably a lot of things, because a lot of things have happened. A lot of things have changed, lately. But he's happy, is the thing. He's just...

He's so happy.

 

*

 

He knows he's not supposed to be here.

He also knows that if he just grabs the kid, right now, no one would care that he was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. If he left the parking lot, if he sprinted across the grass and knocked the kid down, subdued him, then dragged him back to Arzt's house and called the others, they wouldn't ask him why he was at Dalton. They wouldn't wonder how many times he'd been there in the past month -- hell, in the past week. They'd just be glad that they were finally halfway to earning their freedom. 

More than halfway, because no way in hell would any man who calls himself a father just let his son be taken. Whoever this Ben Linus guy is, whatever he's done, he'd gladly turn himself over if he thought it would spare his son harm. Michael knows all about that. He's _lived_ it.

And even if Linus does try to fight -- well, Michael knows all about that, too. And anything he doesn't know, Sayid knows. Between the two of them, they could easily get the guy under control. And then ship him and his son back to the Island, and that's that. He could be with Walt again. Sun and her daughter, they'd be safe. Arzt could stay with his family (or not -- dude already tried to bail once, before he even got to the Island, and Michael's not sure he's as changed as he says he is). And Sayid could start looking for that girl of his, the one whose picture he keeps pulling out to stare at when he thinks no one's looking. They could be happy again, with the people they love. They could _live_.

And what happens to Linus and his kid? 

Well, that's not Michael's problem. 

The kid is halfway between the parking lot and the school. He's half-walking, half-running, his eyes fixed on the building. The bells have already rung twice; the kid's obviously late. And like all kids, that's all he'll be able to think about, right now. Trying to think up an excuse, trying to find some way to get himself out of trouble. If Michael went for it now, the kid probably wouldn't even know what hit him. 

Easiest thing in the world. And then it'd be over, and he'd be free. They all would.

All but Ben Linus and his son.

"Can't do it, can you?" Miss Holliday asks. Michael's still not sure how she sweet-talked her way into his car. He's not really sure why he's sitting outside Dalton Academy in the first place. 

He's not really sure about anything, anymore. Hasn't been since their plane crashed on the Island in the first damn place.

"Don't you have a class to teach?" he asks, finally turning and looking at her. 

She just smirks and tilts her seat back, making herself comfortable. "Teaching it right now," she says, studying her fingernails. "I call it Empathy 101. See, okay, this is how it works. Pretend, for just a second, that you and your son were trapped on this island with a whole bunch of other people. And these people, they said they were good guys, they said they were nice and they wanted to help you, but first they needed to learn more about your son, right? Because your son, he's _special_. So they take your son away from you, and they put him in this room, and --"

Michael swallows hard. "Fuck you," he says, but it doesn't sound the way he wants it to -- it's rough and maybe a little pleading.

"Still an option," she says. "For now, anyway."

"That right?" Not that he cares, really, but it sounds nonchalant, and that's what he's going for right now. Nonchalant. Like she still has to win him over. Like he hasn't already made up his mind.

"Well, I don't sleep with guys who kidnap sixteen year-olds and send them away to be tortured," she says, still staring at her nails. "Call me old-fashioned."

Michael shakes his head. "You really think that's how you're gonna talk me out of this?" he asks. "By offering to sleep with me?"

Miss Holliday shrugs. "Not really," she says. 

"Then what's your pitch?" he asks. "Come on, now. Really sell it to me."

She finally looks at him, and there's something so... He can't explain it, really, just that there's something about her eyes. Something that cuts right through. "I don't need to," she says, finally. "You know exactly what's going to happen to Ben and his son the moment they step foot on that Island. Either you're the kind of guy who can put someone else through that and still sleep at night, or you're not. If you are, there's nothing I can do to stop you. And if you're not..." 

She doesn't finish, just opens the door and climbs out, leaving the seat still tilted back. "Don't call me," she says, holding the door open. "I'll call you."

Then she slams the door shut and walks away.

By the time Michael returns his eyes to the building, the kid is long gone.

 

*

 

_"This is good, David," his father had said._

_"Don't worry about a thing," his father had said._

_"I'm proud of you," his father had said._

He knows what he has to do.

He hasn't been able to get close to Hummel for a while now. Every time he tries, there's always someone with him. Puckerman, that wheelchair kid, one of the Asians... Even that new kid with the big mouth and the Bieber hair's been in on the Secret Service act, shooting David these angry little glares whenever Hummel's back is turned. And the other day, Santana Lopez cornered him by the staircase and went on like a ten-minute rant about Lima Heights Adjacent and all the razor blades in her hair. So he's hung back, hasn't done anything, hasn't said so much as a word to Hummel. Waiting for them to get sloppy, to forget.

It's Hudson's turn on guard duty today.

And Hudson's always been kind of a forgetful guy.

Dave watches Hudson walk away, that big, goofy grin on his big, goofy face, and he waits until Hudson's good and gone before he heads for Hummel's locker, moving slow and careful. This isn't the time to freak Hummel out. Not right now. 

"Hey," he says, and tries not to enjoy the way Hummel flinches, his head ducking instinctively. "Hey, Kurt. Can I..."

"I don't want you near me, Karofsky," Hummel says, tightly, without looking up. 

"I'm sorry." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, something in Kurt's stance softens; he can see it in the way his shoulders settle, the way his grip on the little wedding cake topper in his hand loosens. "I shouldn't have... I was just... I'm so sorry, Kurt. For what I did to you, and I -- I'm just really sorry."

Hummel stares at the cake topper for a little bit longer, then looks up at his locker door, like there's something really important written there. "You know that I didn't have anything to do with you getting kicked off the football team, right?" he asks, and it's still a little sharp, a little angry, but a lot less than it could be. "It wasn't even really up to Mr. Anderson, in the end. Principal Sue did it. And I doubt she'll change her mind just because you apologized."

"I know," he says, quickly. "No, I know that. But that's not..." He sighs and sags back against the lockers, and now Hummel finally turns to look at him, and so Dave turns his eyes up to look at the ceiling. "I'm not on football anymore," he says, quietly. "And I doubt they'll let me back on hockey, either. And no, I'm not happy, but maybe... maybe it's better this way. Because maybe I don't have to worry about... you know, about..."

"You mean this, don't you?" Hummel asks, his voice a lot softer than Dave's ever heard it, and it almost makes him feel bad about what he's doing, but he has to do this, is the thing. He has to. "You're really thinking about coming out."

"I --" He glances over at Hummel, then stares at the floor. "I mean, what does that even mean, coming out? I'm not even sure if I... What if I'm not even..."

Hummel's hand hovers near Dave's shoulder for just a second, like he wants to touch him, but he's too cautious, draws back instead of reaching out. "That offer still stands," he says. "When Blaine and I said we'd talk to you, about... about all of this. We meant it."

Dave takes a deep breath, looks up at Hummel for a second, just looking at him. "Yeah?" he asks, finally. 

This time, Hummel does touch his shoulder, but only for a second. "This afternoon," he says, his voice a lot steadier than anything else about him. "Blaine's helping me get things ready for my dad's wedding; we're meeting up in the home ec room. If you're serious -- if you really want to talk about this, then that's where we'll be."

"Okay," Dave says, and looks at Hummel again. "Kurt? I really am sorry. For... for everything."

Hummel nods, his face serious. "I know," he says, quietly. Then he tucks the wedding figurine into his pocket and hurries away towards the choir room, like he's still not sure he's safe around Dave.

Which is he's not, of course. But he doesn't know that, just like he doesn't know why Dave was apologizing to him just now. 

And he's not going to find out. 

_"Look, whatever happens, you're done with this, okay?" his father had said._

_"I mean it. From here on in, this is nothing to do with you. So just stay clear and let me work," his father had said._

_"I don't want you getting more mixed up in this than you have to be," his father had said._

_And Dave had said "Okay," and he'd said "I love you too," and he'd known the whole time. He'd known what he had to do._

 

*

 

He's just making his way back from the copy machines when he lifts his heads from his sheet music and sees something he honestly never thought he'd see. Emma's standing by the entrance to the choir room, talking to a student. 

Which, admittedly, wouldn't be that unusual, except that the student is wearing a Dalton uniform. 

And standing by the choir room. 

Will tucks the sheet music a little closer to his vest, and takes a few steps closer. 

"... So it's down the stairs, turn left, and go all the way to the end of the hall," Emma says, smiling. "There's a really big pink quilt hanging by the doorway, so you can't miss it. Okay?"

"Think I got it now," the boy says, rocking back on his heels. "Oh, and thanks, Miss P." 

"No problem," Emma says, smiling at him. "Congratulate Kurt for me, won't you?"

"Sure thing," the boy says, and lifts his hand in a casual wave before he turns and walks away. He nods at Will as they pass; bemused, Will nods back.

Emma must catch sight of him then; her smile freezes, becomes a little more forced. "Hey, Will," she says, obviously making an effort to sound friendly. And Will's pretty sure he can chalk that up to Rocky Horror and "Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me," but he's not 100%; that was a Dalton student she was talking to, and they are New Directions' main competition this year. Which, in Will's experience, means they're the people most likely to try and sabotage his team. 

Not that he really thinks Emma would _help_ them, not really, but. Still.

"Hey, Emma," he says, managing to smile back at her. "So. See any Dalton kids running around TP-ing the choir room? Or was that boy just really, really lost?"

"What?" Emma blinks a few times, rapidly, the way she always does when she's nervous. She shakes her head a little bit, manages to smile at him. "Oh, that wasn't... I mean it _was_ , obviously, or _he_ was, but he's not... That's Mr. Anderson's son. You know, the math teacher? With the little glasses that make his eyes look even bigger than mine, and a vest collection that puts yours to shame?"

It takes Will a moment to remember -- he doesn't know the math faculty too well, doesn't have to deal with them a lot. But he does remember a guy coming in last year, when Shetterly had his final nervous breakdown and started camping out in the hallways, pelting the students with chalk. "The little guy?" he asks. "With all the pictures of --"

"Of his son, exactly," Emma says. "That was his son. Blaine."

"Huh." Will rocks back on his heels, considering it. Come to think of it, he might have even seen the boy before. Not by his classroom, maybe, but in the parking lot, once or twice. Or hanging out down by his father's office, waiting for him to get done with some meeting. He's not positive, but maybe he's seen him around. Maybe. "So, what, he's just looking for his dad, then?"

Emma shakes her head again, still smiling. "Oh, no, not today," she says. "No, today he was looking for Kurt. So they could do... You know. Wedding things. Lots of planning, you know; they've only got a week. Of course, if anyone could do it, it's --"

"Wait," Will says, frowning. He could understand why the kid would be here if he's looking for his father; maybe they share a car or something, or it's some kind of latchkey situation (although that seems unlikely, with a boy Blaine's age.) And he supposes that he can see how the kid might have gotten to know Kurt, after a while, if the two of them have run into each other enough. But he can't quite figure out why Kurt would invite their competition to McKinley to help plan a wedding. "I'm a little confused. He's Kurt's... friend?"

"Well, they do have a lot in common," Emma says. "They're both the teenaged gay children of single fathers who've recently had health crises -- or at least that's what I'm guessing, since Blaine's been taking his dad to the doctor's a lot, recently, and he got a little teary when I gave him that pamphlet on how to turn a hospital into a home. Anyway, as much as I respect Kurt for his organizational skills and ability to plan out an impeccable wardrobe, he does have a lot on his hands, what with the wedding and all. He could use a little help. So it's not really that surprising that he'd turn to Blaine. I mean, gay men do make the most wonderful wedding planners. Back when I was about to marry Ken, I hired a straight woman, and it was just an absolute nightmare, really couldn't have been worse. If I ever do it again, I'm going gay all the way."

"Huh," Will says, because he really can't say anything else to that. Literally, there's just nothing he can say. 

Then it hits him -- of course he knows who Mr. Anderson is, and not just because he's seen him and his son around. It's because of _Shannon_. "Mr. Anderson," he says, slowly. "That's the guy who got David Karofsky kicked off the football team, right? While I was gone. Because Karofsky was failing his class, being... disrespectful. To him and to Coach Beiste."

And to his fellow students as well, although Will's not totally sure that Mr. Anderson would have known about that. But maybe he did; if his son really is friends with Kurt, close enough that Kurt would actually let him help with the wedding, then maybe...

"Oh yes," Emma says, promptly. "Yes, he really took a page from the Will Schuester playbook with that one. Although I'm not sure he knew that, since he wasn't around when you did it. But it was the first thing I thought of, when it happened."

Will nods, lets out another little "Huh." Because he's got to wonder -- the way Karofsky's been picking on Kurt, this year; it's been worse than the usual teasing that goes on at this school. A lot worse. Granted, Kurt hadn't exactly been willing to talk about it when he was in Will's office. But with a different teacher, maybe, one who he knew had a son like him, a son who was gay and maybe had gone through some bullying of his own... That might make the difference, for Kurt. Make him more willing to open up. 

And it's not like Will knows Mr. Anderson that well -- or at all, really -- but he has to wonder if maybe that wasn't the tipping point for him as well, with Karofsky. If, maybe, he wasn't so concerned about Karofsky's grades, if maybe he was just trying to strike back at a bully in the best way that he could.

Not that Will thinks that's such a bad thing, necessarily. Or that it's anything he wouldn't have done himself.

"Well," he says, finally, realizing that he's been quiet too long and Emma's staring at him a little anxiously. "That's good, actually. That Kurt's got a friend. To help him. And also that the choir room hasn't been TP'd again, because... Because that was pretty upsetting for the kids, last year, and I'd hate for them to --"

"Of course," Emma says, quickly. "Yes, of course, absolutely."

"It's been a while," Will adds. "Since we've had that kind of a... a friendly rivalry, instead of --" 

And he's still struggling for words to define the Vocal Adrenaline situation (and the flagrant cheating from both Jane Addams Academy and the Haverbrook School for the Deaf) when they both hear it -- a short, sharp, surprisingly deep _crack_ , like a firework going off. He grabs for Emma's hand, and she doesn't pull away but actually presses closer; there's a heavy pause, and then another _crack_ , and then _another_ , and Emma hides her face in his shoulder. 

Then it's silent again, and this time, it stays that way.

"Will?" Emma asks, pulling back to stare up at him, her eyes enormous. "Please tell me that was just Noah Puckerman dropping cherry bombs down the toilets again."

Will swallows hard. 

Down the hall, a door opens; Will hears a man saying "Block the door, and don't let anyone in, no matter who they say they are. And for God's sake, stay away from the windows."

"But where are you going?" someone else asks ( _Mike_ , Will thinks, _that's Mike_.)

"I have to find my son," the man says, and then turns and starts running, dodging around Will and Emma like he doesn't even really see them, heading for the stairs. 

The same stairs that Emma sent Blaine Anderson down ten minutes ago.

Will looks down at Emma, then pushes her towards the still-open doorway where Mike is standing, staring out into the hallway. "Go," he says, pushing her again when she doesn't move. "Get them back in that classroom. And _stay_ there."

Emma takes a few steps forward on her own, then stops, turning back. "But... But Will..."

"And for God's sake, call 911," Will adds, giving her one final, little shove -- when she stumbles forward, he turns and sprints away, following after Mr. Anderson.

 

*

 

Just as he reaches the top of the stairs, he hears footsteps pounding down the hallway after him. He ignores them, just as he ignores the shouting coming from the direction of Sue's office, just as he ignores the pain in his back and the tightness in his chest and the way his shoes skid along the freshly-buffed tiles. He nearly misses a step, catches himself with one hand on the railing, keeps going. Doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow down, doesn't look back to see who's behind him, yanking open the door to the stairwell and plunging down after him.

There's only one thing on his mind. 

Blaine. 

_Blaine._


	12. The Incident (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A frightened dog is the most dangerous kind.

"Santana," she says, her voice quiet and firm and somehow sad, and she almost doesn't sound like Coach Sue at all. And it's stupid, and it's crazy, and it's totally pointless, but all Santana can think right now is that she'd give anything to be called _Funbags_ or _Boobs McGee_ or _Cuban-American Barbie_ right now. Not her name. Anything but her name.

"Santana, I want you to do what Mr. Anderson says. Okay?"

She takes a deep breath in and swallows hard, her sweaty, slippery hands tightening instinctively around the gun.

 

*

 

"I know what you're doing," Kurt says, draping more fabric over Santana's shoulder and then frowning at it, at her. She thinks about kicking her legs, catching him in the kneecap, but settles for popping her gum in his face instead. A fleck of spit catches him right below the eye, and he barely even flinches, just wiping it off with one hand as he adjusts the fabric so her Cheerios uniform is more fully covered. 

"I'm sitting on a table in the most sexist classroom ever, getting covered in cheap quilting fabric by the second coming of Christian Siriano," Santana reminds him. "That's what I'm doing, Ladyface. And if you didn't know that, I'd be deeply, deeply frightened."

Kurt pulls the fabric off her shoulder again, rewrapping it around the bolt. He grabs another one, unrolls a few feet of fabric, drapes it. Lather, rinse, repeat. "Hold that there for a second," he says.

Santana groans, but she does it, grabbing the fabric by the folded edges and holding it against her shoulder, draped over her like a toga. "I'm pretty sure that this is the same color as the last one," she says.

"And I'm pretty sure you're colorblind," Kurt says, but he says it all soft and thoughtful, taking a few steps back and studying her with his hand under his chin, one finger stretching along his jawbone. "And that's not what I mean, when I said I knew what you were doing. I meant..." He does that little hand-flicky thing of his, like he's waving away a fly. Seriously, he's like Gloria Swanson without the turbans; it's not even right. "The Secret Service routine. Following me around. Making sure I'm not alone in the hallways. Keeping me company in the home ec room. Puck won't even let me go to the bathroom by myself anymore."

"Yeah, that's kind of a fetish of his," Santana says, breezily, and pops her gum again the moment Kurt comes to take the fabric off her. He just ignores her; apparently, he's harder to gross out when he's in Project Rungay mode. Good to know. "Best thing to do is just stay really quiet -- it's the grunting that gets him off."

Kurt shakes his head, rewrapping the fabric. He peers at the end of the bolt for a second, jots down a few notes, then takes the bolt and goes to put it away again. "For what it's worth," he says, "I do appreciate it. I'm not entirely sure that it's necessary, and I'm missing my privacy more than I ever thought I possibly could, but I do appreciate the gesture."

Santana just hops off the table and goes to read over his shoulder. Because she doesn't want Kurt appreciating anything, really. She wants to annoy the crap out of him, or this won't be any fun at all. "Pantene?" she repeats, giving Kurt a look. "Look, Hummel, I get that you think you're like the Queen of Makeovers, or whatever, but I do not need you telling me which products to buy. My hair is awesome. I have awesome hair."

"You have no idea how much it hurts that I can't argue with you on that," Kurt says. "Although it does pain me to think about the damage you girls are doing with those ponytails Sue makes you wear. Anyway, Santana, it's Pan _tone_. It's so I know what color I'm looking for when I go out to find your dresses."

"Okay," Santana says, raising her eyebrow. "First off. Who said _you_ got to choose the dresses, anyway?"

Kurt just blinks up at her, and God, he really should be easier to rattle than this. The day before the wedding, that's when he'll be a wreck. She'll have to find some excuse to come bug him then. "My father did," he says. "When he said I was planning the wedding. Anyway, you haven't gotten to dress yourself since you were a freshman. I doubt you remember how."

"Okay, _you_ dress like Don Knotts on bondage night," Santana says. "Incidentally, what does Dalton make of all the straps and the leather? Does it freak him out, or is he, like, totally secret kinky?" Kurt just stares at her, like he's not sure whether to be horrified or pissed off, and Santana figures she's going to chalk that one up as a win. "Knew it. Repressed private school boys are _always_ the kinky ones."

"Okay, first of all," Kurt says, bundling his papers up like he's hiding something (and he _totally_ is), "he has a name. His name is _Blaine_. Second, Blaine and I are just friends, and I'd appreciate it if _all_ of you would stop speculating about any potential... entanglements between us."

"Entanglements," Santana repeats, and can't suppress a smirk. "What, like with ropes? Scarves? Blue and red striped neckties?"

" _Third_ ," Kurt says, his voice starting to pitch higher, and she is so under his skin now, and it's so totally awesome. "Blaine has been nothing but a gentleman since the day we met, and I sincerely doubt he's hiding any kind of ... whatever." His hand flaps again, like he's trying to wave her off, and he's blushing right up to the tips of his ears, and this is honestly the most fun Santana's had in _ages_. 

Santana just shakes her head. "All that tells me is that he's not bothering to hide it," she points out. "And since you like to dress up like a Fetish Bar Ken Doll, that's not really surprising."

"And _fourth_ , I would appreciate it if you would leave the two of us alone when he arrives." He almost squeaks out the last bit, he's so flustered. Honestly, Santana can't even remember why she was so pissed off to have to babysit him anymore. This is like a rare and precious gift from Heaven. "So we can work in peace and quiet, without all the... Without all the commentary."

"Oooh," Santana says, creeping in a little closer. "Baby Gay wants to get his mack on in the home ec room? Me gusta."

Kurt groans and slumps over the table, burying his head in his hands.

"No, seriously," Santana says, pushing his notebooks out of the way so she can hop up on the table, legs swinging. "I'm proud of you, Hummel. I always thought you'd be, like, the only person at this school to lose their virginity after Berry lost hers, and now you're about to get down in the home ec room with some rich prep school boy. This is a really good development for you. Plus, you're like the most uptight person I know, and if anyone has ever truly _needed_ to get laid, it's --"

"Santana," Kurt says, very quietly, so quietly that she can't even think of anything to say back to him. She just looks at him, for a second, at how pale he's gotten and how wide his eyes are, like saucers, and then she turns and looks at the doorway. 

There's a boy in a Dalton blazer standing there, staring back at them, and Santana could say a lot of things right now -- about his caterpillar eyebrows and how much they need waxing, about the fact that his hair is glued to his head with shellac, about how short he is, about -- But all she can really pay attention to his how he's just as pale as Kurt, and how his eyes are just as wide, and how small he looks with Karofsky looming over his shoulder.

She slides off the table and turns until she's standing next to Kurt, reaches out and tangles her fingers with his, instinctively.

"I'm sorry," the Dalton kid says, staring at them. His lower lip is trembling, just a little bit. "I'm so, so sorry; I didn't want to get you mixed up in this, I didn't --"

"Shut up," Karofsky says, shoving the kid forward. He stumbles into the room, putting space between himself and Karofsky, and that's when she sees the gun.

 

*

 

"I wanna go home," she says, and hates the way she sounds, hates the way her voice breaks and she sounds close to tears. "I just... I wanna go home."

"I know." Mr. Anderson's voice is surprisingly steady, but he can't seem to look at her for very long, his eyes flicking between her and the boy bleeding on the floor. "We'll get you there. But I need you to listen to me right now, okay?"

She can't stop crying and she can't take a hand off the gun to wipe away her tears, and this sucks and she just wants to go home. She wants her abuela. She wants Brittany. She just doesn't want to be here anymore. "Okay," she says, and at least she sounds a little steadier now. "Okay."

"Okay," Mr. Anderson says, and when she glances at him again, his eyes are only on her.

 

*

 

Kurt's hand tightens around Santana's, so tight it almost hurts, and part of her wants to swear at him but instead she just holds on. "What's going on?" Kurt asks, his voice sharp, high, and frightened. "What are you _doing_?"

Karofsky just stares at him, and even though he's got the gun, he looks as scared as anyone else in the room. Maybe more. He's sweating, and his hands are a little shaky, and Santana thinks that should make her feel better but honestly it just makes her feel worse. Makes her think of the neighbor's Doberman, the one that used to bark at her all the time, and her mom said that it was just scared, and her abuela said that _a frightened dog is the most dangerous kind_. "Move," Karofsky says, pointing the gun at them, and then at the center of the room, and then back at them. "Where I can see you." But Kurt just stands there -- oh God, he's freaking out, and this is going to be bad, this is going to be so -- and Santana can't seem to push him fast enough for Karofsky, because his voice is already getting loud when he snaps out "Come on, come _on_."

"We're going, Jesus Christ," Santana says, because she can't always seem to make her mouth stop, but this time, when she shoves at Kurt, he moves. He's shaking from head to toe now, like some sort of freaked-out chihuahua, but he's moving, and that's all she really cares about right now.

"You too," Karofsky says, pointing the gun at the Dalton kid, and he hurries over to Santana and Kurt, positioning himself carefully in front of them. It'd almost be reassuring, if he were a little taller. It's almost reassuring anyway, just because.

"David," Dalton says, and his voice is only a little shaky. He's probably the calmest person in the room right now, and Santana's not sure why, but she thinks she hates him for that. "You don't have to do this. Please don't --"

"I said shut up!" Karofsky lifts the gun again, points it right at Dalton, and he falls immediately silent, his whole body going still.

Kurt's not still at all; he's shaking so hard that Santana almost wants to clutch at him, just to keep him from breaking apart. "You said you just wanted to _talk_ ," Kurt says, voice high and hysterical and like nails on a blackboard. "You said --"

"Oh, we'll talk," Karofsky says, and it sounds like he's practiced it, like he's been saying it to himself in the mirror over and over again, like some kind of overgrown Travis Bickle. But at the same time he still sounds absolutely terrified. Close to losing control, like he could start shooting any second, and Santana's not too proud to tuck herself a little more behind Dalton's blazer-clad shoulder, hiding. "We'll talk about a lot of things. But you're gonna do something for me first."

Dalton stiffens up, like Karofsky just said something awful. " _Don't_ ," he growls, taking one step forward, and for just a moment, there is something downright dangerous about him. Then Kurt lets out a sort of whimper, and Dalton glances back over his shoulder, and the moment passes. Dalton's hands go up, he steps back again, and he says "David, please. Kurt doesn't need to be involved in this. This is nothing to do with him, or his friends, or --"

Karofsky's nostrils flare, and this time it's Santana who hisses out a "Shut up!" She grabs at Dalton's arm with her free hand, digging her nails in. "What is wrong with you, Jesus Christ? Do you really want to get us all killed?" 

And Dalton shuts up, but now he's shaking too; Santana can feel his arm trembling and twitching in her grip. And she should be happy that his calm is finally starting to crack a little but, but she's just not sure she can be the sane one in this situation; she really isn't. 

"I want you to go upstairs," Karofsky says, waving the gun in Kurt's general direction, and Santana can feel Dalton's muscles flexing where she's holding on to him, his whole body coiled tight and tense. "I want you to go and find _his_ dad," and the gun is pointed at Dalton again, "and I want you to bring him back down here. And then we're gonna talk. About the Island."

The gun points at Kurt again, lazy, like the spinner on a Ouija board, and Dalton sags a little in Santana's grip, like he's just resigned himself to something.

Kurt shakes his head, lips pressed tight together, and Santana's known him long enough to know that he's just this side of bursting into tears. "No," he whispers, voice barely a whimper.

"Kurt, it's okay," Dalton says, softly. "Just... just do what he says. And he'll let you go. He'll let you _both_ go."

"No," Kurt says again. "No, I can't, I -- you _can't_ \--"

"Kurt, please," Dalton says, starting to sound a little rough, a little desperate. "It's not worth it. _We're_ not worth it. Just go and it'll be over; you can go home, you can --"

The first few tears start rolling down Kurt's cheeks; and maybe it's just that he's ugly when he cries; and maybe it's just that Dalton's still way, way too calm; and maybe it's just that Santana is freaked out and pissed off and she shouldn't be here, dammit, she shouldn't have gotten stuck in this stupid, ugly mess in the first place when none of this has anything to do with her. But she snaps. "Lay off, all right?" she hisses. "Don't you get it? He's _scared_. Just... Just... Just give him a second."

"I know," Dalton whispers back, and he really does sound desperate now, "I _know_ , but we don't really have a lot of time here, and I'm sorry, Kurt, but you have to --"

There's a short, sharp crack, like a firecracker going off, and Santana lets go of Dalton entirely and clutches at Kurt. Her ears are ringing; she can just barely hear Kurt babbling "Oh my god oh my god oh my god," and she wants to say something about atheists and foxholes but she's too distracted by the way Karofsky is staring blankly at the gun in his hand, like he forgot it was a real thing until his finger was on the trigger and it was too late to stop himself.

Then Dalton's rushing forward, leaving Santana and Kurt without the tenuous shelter he provided, and Santana just manages to grab Kurt and drag him down to the floor with her before the gun goes off again, and then _again_ , and something soft and fleshy hits the floor with an audible thump.

 

*

 

"Good," Mr. Anderson says, his voice calm and soothing, and Santana hates it. She hates him. "You can put the gun down now, Santana."

She shakes her head, tightening her fingers on the grip. There's sirens now, outside, and footsteps upstairs, and shouting, and she doesn't think she can deal with this, she just doesn't. "He'll take it," she says, and shifts the gun until it's pointed at Karofsky again. He doesn't even seem to notice; he's still staring at Kurt, at that Dalton kid still bleeding all over the floor of the home ec room, and she hates him for that, for ignoring her when _she's_ the one with the gun. "He'll take it back."

She hates everything.

"Let him take it," Mr. Anderson says. "There's no bullets left in it, remember? He can't hurt anyone anymore, not with that. It's okay. It's over."

"It's _not_ ," she says, but it comes out as more of a sob than anything else, and she lowers the gun again. 

And after a second, she crouches down, careful not to let the hem of her Cheerios skirt touch the floor, and lays the gun gently against the tile. 

"Good," Mr. Anderson says, quietly. "Good. Thank you, Santana."

She wants to tell him to go fuck himself, but she can't seem to make her throat work.

 

*

 

There's a clatter as the gun hits the tile (Santana pulling Kurt even closer at the sound of it), and then heavy footsteps stumbling across the floor, and now it's Karofsky's turn to say "Oh god, oh god, oh god," over and over again, his voice thicker, distorted like his nose is plugged up or something, and Santana doesn't want to look up, but she does anyway. Karofsky's backed himself into the corner near the door, one hand over his nose, blood already trickling down to his chin, and he's staring at something, still chanting out "Oh god, oh god, oh god," and Santana knows what he's looking at and she knows she doesn't want to see it. 

Then she hears a rough sort of gasping noise, and she can't stop herself from turning, can't stop herself from _looking_. Dalton's on the floor, curled in on himself, both hands pressing at his thigh. And there's blood, there's a lot of it, but he doesn't look dead, at least. He lets out a pathetic sort of a whine, and Kurt immediately struggles free of Santana's hold, all but crawling over to his boyfriend's side. 

"Blaine," he says, his voice still high and choky and grating. "Blaine, say something, _please_ say something --"

"Hurts," Blaine whispers, like he doesn't have the strength to get any louder than that. "Didn't think... Didn't think it'd hurt, like this... It..."

"Sssh," Kurt murmurs, kneeling next to him and getting blood all over his jeans, and he'll hate himself for that when this is over, Santana thinks, he really will. "Don't try to talk."

Blaine lets out a weird little sobbing laugh, and it's the most human he's ever sounded. "You... You just told me to say something," he points out. 

"And now I'm telling you to stop," Kurt says, and what's weird is that he actually seems to be getting _calmer_ now, like he just didn't know what to do with himself until someone started bleeding. Which is creepy as fuck, but at least he doesn't sound like he's about to start screaming now. Kurt turns, looking back over his shoulder at Santana. "Get me some fabric or something; he's... he's bleeding pretty bad; he needs --"

He raises one arm, waving it in the general direction of the quilting supplies (all those bolts of floral calico for Blaine to bleed on), and as soon as he moves, Santana sees the gun behind him, neglected on the floor. And when she glances back over to the far corner of the room, she realizes that Karofsky's seen it too, his eyes focusing on it, his hand falling away from his bloody, broken nose. 

But Santana's smarter than he is, and faster, and there's no way she's letting him get his hands on that thing again.

She dives for it, skidding across the floor and getting blood on the white sleeves of her bodysuit, blood on her clean white Nikes. But she comes up triumphant, gun in hand, and when she points it at Karofsky, she almost feels good for a second. In control again. Like herself. "Don't," she says, as he sags back against the wall, sliding back down until he's sitting. "Don't even think it, or I'll --"

"So just do it," Karofsky says, closing his eyes, and it takes the momentary thrill of triumph, of finally doing _something_ , right away from her. "It doesn't even matter anymore. Just freaking do it and get it over with."

"David." And it's funny, because it's not like Blaine's got a reason to be scared of Karofsky anymore, but he keeps calling him by his first name, and she doesn't know why. "David, no, don't --"

"Don't, Blaine," Kurt says, and he's just getting calmer by the second, even as things just get weirder, and there has to be something wrong with him, but then, it's not like anything is exactly _right_ right now. "It's all right, Santana's not going to --"

"Oh, you think?" Santana says, tightening her grip on the gun. It's a good thing she's spent so much time on the base of the pyramid, lately; last year she might have been shaking by now, but she's stronger than she was, she can hold up better. "Because I'm thinking maybe Baby Bear here has a point. Maybe he doesn't matter. And maybe I _should_ just --"

"Santana," Blaine says, his voice cracking a little bit. "Please. You don't want to --"

"This is your fault," Karofsky says, turning back to Blaine. He's starting to cry now, and Jesus, he cries uglier than anyone Santana's ever seen, and it's not just the broken nose, either; it's just him. The way his face crumples up and his mouth goes slack, the way he turns all blotchy and red. It's awful. "If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't have come back. If it wasn't for you, he could've just stayed gone. We didn't _want_ him back. We didn't --"

"I'm sorry," Blaine says, his voice raspy with pain, but still awkwardly sincere. "I'm so sorry, David; I --"

Kurt shushes him, his voice low and urgent. "Just lie back," he murmurs. "Lie back. You'll hurt yourself." 

Karofsky tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling, blood still running down his face, and part of Santana almost feels sorry for him, but most of her just hates his guts. Honestly, she really would shoot him, except it's obviously what he wants, and fuck that noise. She's not doing a thing for him. Not a damn thing. "I wish he'd never come back," he says. "He ruined it. He ruined everything."

Then there's running footsteps coming down the hall, and Karofsky looks at Santana again, still crying, and he just says " _Please_ ," and Santana starts to shake. She takes her finger away from the trigger, because God knows she doesn't want to pull a Karofsky and just start shooting everything, but she doesn't let go of the gun, keeps her hands curled tight around the grip. "Please," Karofsky says again, and when Santana shakes her head, he closes his eyes and sags back against the wall.

The math teacher is the first one to show up, the little bug-eyed guy who asked Brittany to be on the Academic Decathalon (and Santana totally does not understand anything about that at all, but it makes Brittany smile so she's not going to say a word). Then it's Mr. Schuester, and Coach Sue coming up behind him, and Santana figures she should probably let go of the gun now before they think that she -- 

But she can't, is the thing. Because when Karofsky said _please_ like that, he meant it, and she doesn't totally know what the hell's going on, but she's not gonna let Karofsky shoot himself before she finds out.

"Santana," Mr. Schuester says, sounding a little shocked, and of course he's the first one to assume that she's gone all Rambina, of course he's -- 

"It's all right," the math teacher says, and he sounds exactly like Blaine did when Karofsky pushed him into the room, like the whole thing's just gone full circle. "Santana, you can put the gun down, now. It's over."

"He shot that kid," Santana says, and doesn't let go of the gun. "He came in with a gun, and he... and then he..."

"I know," the math teacher says, softly. "But the police are on their way, and it's over now, Santana. You don't have to hold on to that anymore."

Santana shakes her head, ponytail flying. "He'll take it," she says. "As soon as I put it down, he'll take it."

The math teacher watches her for a second, then takes a deep breath. "Then we'll unload it," he says.

"I don't know how," Santana points out. "It'll go off."

"I'll talk you through it," he says, in that calm voice that she hates so much. "It'll be fine."

Santana swallows hard, her sweaty hands tightening around the gun.

Coach finally says something, which would almost be a relief if she didn't sound so defeated. "Santana," she says, and Santana wishes it was something else, like _Sandbags_ or _Tittywampus_ or _Jiggle Me Elmo_ , anything but her name in that sad, guilty tone of voice. "Santana, I want you to do what Mr. Anderson says, okay?"

 

*

 

Mr. Anderson's hand settles on her shoulder as she straightens up, and she doesn't want him touching her, she _hates_ him, but she lets him steer her towards the door, where Mr. Schue is waiting with one arm outstretched to pull her in. And she doesn't want him to hug her, she doesn't want anyone touching her, she hates everyone on the planet right now, but when Mr. Schue's arm settles on her shoulders, she just goes with it, and hides her face in his shoulder, and hates the way it makes her feel safer.

"Santana," Mr. Schue says, softly, and rests his chin on her hair.

"Dad," Blaine says, and when Santana turns her head and opens her eyes, she sees Mr. Anderson kneeling at Blaine's side, not touching him, just... hovering there. Like he doesn't know what's happening. "Am I..." Blaine lets out a little, pained sound and Mr. Anderson's hand flutters over him, comes to rest in the center of his chest. "Am I in trouble?"

Mr. Anderson lets out a weird sort of half-laugh, and shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, you're not in trouble, Blaine."

"He was firing wild," Blaine mumbles, and ignores Kurt trying to shush him. "Someone was gonna get hurt. Had to... Had to get the gun, had to -- I couldn't wait, Dad."

"I know," Mr. Anderson says, and brushes his fingers along the edge of his son's forehead. "I know. You're not in trouble, Blaine."

"Couldn't wait," Blaine says again. "I'm sorry." He looks past his father for just a second, looks right at Santana. "I'm sorry," he says, and it's directed right at her, and she hates him more than she's ever hated anyone, just for that. For being _sorry_.

Santana closes her eyes again, and hides her face in Mr. Schue's shoulder, and lets him lead her out of the room.


	13. Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not quite ready for explanations, not yet. Right now it's enough that no one's died.

There's a cop waiting for them in the hospital lobby.

Burt's long since lost count of how many of them he's seen today. 

SWAT guys in black kevlar, prowling around the grounds of McKinley like they were just looking for someone to shoot, hapless-looking sheriff's deputies in brown guarding the perimeter, trying to keep the looky-loos out. Burt and some of the other parents -- the Lopezes, both sets of Changs, Artie Abrams' folks, and Mrs. Pierce -- were escorted into the school by a state trooper in gray, who didn't look exactly comfortable to be stuck inside four walls instead of out on the highway; the Lima P.D., their very own chubby blue line, were on the inside of the school -- conferring in doorways, retracing steps, talking to witnesses. Then there were the plainclothes guys handling the students themselves. Most of them were holed up in the choir room; at least, that's where the Abrams and Changs and Brittany's mom wound up. But Burt and the Lopezes, they were taken to the administrative offices instead, so they could watch their pale, shaken children give stuttering statements to a detective while Sue Sylvester sat behind her desk and watched them with a face that was about fifty years older than it was supposed to be. And all around them, McKinley high school just teeming with police officers.

To say that it's not quite how Burt wanted to celebrate his engagement to the woman he loves would be an understatement of the worst kind. 

He's known fear all the way straight down to his bones since before Kurt was born. Been scared since he saw that little pink plus sign, honestly. Because pregnancies are risky, and children are delicate, and there's so many things that could go wrong. He's got a list of fears a mile long, and this very situation is right up near the top of it. But it's not the thing he fears the most, and that's why he doesn't take his son home to rest and recuperate when the first statements have been taken. They do run to the house, just briefly, and Burt stops the car in the driveway, leaves the engine running, and makes a few quick phone calls while Kurt runs down to his room to get something. And then Kurt's back in the car and they're back on the road, driving to the hospital. Driving back towards the cops.

Because Burt never wanted to have to do this; he never wanted to see his wide-eyed son sitting next to a plainclothes detective, telling him how he'd felt when he heard the gun go off for the first time. But he knows it could have been worse. That right now, there's a guy in a hospital waiting room who's suffering through something Burt can't even contemplate. 

So he nods at the cop, gives his name and shows his I.D., and lets the guy lead him and Kurt through the automatic doors, down the hallway, to a small private waiting room in the middle of the crowded trauma center.

Ben's alone in there, no cops to guard him, no SWAT guys looking restless or state troopers looking confused. It's just him, standing by the complimentary coffee station with his hands on the counter and his head bowed, like the enormity of what's happening to him didn't really hit until he got up to fix himself a drink and then it just ran him over.

Which is probably exactly what happened, come to think of it. 

Ben lifts his head and glances at them just as the cop slips out of the room again, closing the door as he goes. He doesn't say anything, but he nods at them before turning back to the coffee machine, and Burt swallows hard and steps toward him, Kurt still clinging to his left hand, his right closed tightly around the roughly carved wooden doll in his pocket. 

"Thank you," Ben says, so quietly that Burt has to strain to hear him. He picks up a sugar packet, holds it with shaking hands; Burt's not exactly sure what he means to do with it, since there's no cup in front of him, nothing for him to add sugar to. "For coming. I'm sure you're... you're anxious to get home. But they tell me it won't be too much longer, so."

"It's no trouble," Burt says, finally detaching from Kurt's grip and coming in a little closer. He lets go of the doll in his pocket and reaches out for Ben's shoulder instead; Ben stiffens up for a second when Burt touches him, then relaxes, his whole body slumping with -- exhaustion, grief, something like that. A whole lot of things at once, probably. "How you holding up?"

"I'm not," Ben says, his voice a little choked. He drops the sugar packet back to the counter, and his hands fall to his sides. "But again. Thank you. For... For being concerned."

There's not a lot Burt can say to that. The way he sees it, he doesn't need thanking, but that's not always something you can say in these kinds of circumstances. He'd like to say he understands, but he knows he doesn't, not really. He settles on saying "It's no trouble," again, because at least that's true. Hell, there'd have been trouble if Kurt _hadn't_ been allowed to come to the hospital; Burt knows how worried he is about his friend.

"You said it wouldn't be very long," Kurt says, finally chiming in. Ben turns to look at him, something soft on his face, like Kurt's fear is making him forget his own for a moment. Which, again, is probably exactly what's happening. Burt doesn't know Ben that well, but he knows the guy's got a soft spot for kids. "Is he... Does that mean he... How is he?"

"He's..." Ben somehow musters up a smile, although it's small and strained, and fades almost as soon as it's come. But Burt lets go of him anyway, lets him step away from the little coffee station and come closer to Kurt, reaching out to touch his arm for a second. "He's very lucky. There's been some... some damage, and he'll be on crutches for quite a while, but... But he's all right, otherwise. Mostly they're just... just cleaning him up, right now."

He smiles again, and this one flickers and fades just as quickly as the first one did. Kurt glances nervously at Burt, and Burt clears his throat.

"We... uh... We brought something," he says, jamming his hands back in his pockets. Something almost like alarm passes across Ben's face for a moment, then vanishes as soon as it's come, and Burt's stomach drops just a little bit. He's well aware that this could end badly for all four of them, that this might be the worst idea he and Kurt have ever had. All he can do is trust that Ben felt the same way about Annie as Burt always did -- that she was there to help him, to take care of him. Not to hurt him. "Something for Blaine. It's... It's something Kurt's mom made, when she was a little girl, and she passed it on to him, and... uh... Kurt's always liked having it around when he's been sick or hurt or just, you know, not feeling all that great. So." He takes one last look at Ben's wary, watchful face, then pulls the doll out of his pocket and holds it out.

Ben goes very, very still. "Oh," he says, quietly. He doesn't move, and Burt's not sure if that's good or bad. But there's not really anything he can do either way, so he just holds it out, waiting.

Finally, Ben reaches out, takes the doll from Burt's outstretched hands, careful, like it's something precious. Which it is. Of course it is. "It was a birthday present," he says, his voice just this side of shaky. Burt sets a hand on his shoulder to brace him, and for the first time, Ben doesn't stiffen up when he's touched. If he even notices that Burt's hand is there, which he might not. He's focused on the doll with an intensity that's almost frightening. "My... my father was never particularly interested in celebrating the occasion, and no one else ever paid much mind to it. But _she_ remembered."

"Yeah," Burt says, and his voice is a little gruff too, right now. Because he's moved on and all, moved on with his life, but he still misses her. Always will. "Annie was always good about things like that."

Ben looks up at him when he says her name, meets his eyes. "I always wondered..." he says, then shakes his head. "Thank you," he says again, and that must be where Blaine gets it from, the way he's always thanking people. The two of them, they seem to expect so little. "For this." His gaze shifts to Kurt, a little less watery now. "But I think perhaps you'd better hold on to it for now, until we know whether Blaine's getting transferred to ICU, or just going home, or... They're... particular about what gets brought into the rooms down here. Risk of infection, and everything. And I think... I think it might be nice for you to give it to Blaine yourself. If you wanted to do that."

"Of course I do," Kurt says, quickly, and it's no surprise that he sounds as choked up as anyone else in the room. Kurt feels a lot, he always has. "I just... we weren't sure if..."

"I wouldn't worry," Ben says, and it's almost that same eerie calm that he usually has, but not quite. He can't quite seem to get there. "We're not skipping town just yet, Blaine and I." He glances back at Burt again. "And anyway, I rather feel as though we owe the two of you a very long explanation."

Burt shrugs, squeezing Ben's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't think about it too hard," he says. "You got enough on your plate." Ben gives him a look of gratitude that's so completely undeserved that it's almost hard to stomach, and Burt lets go and takes Ben's place at the coffee station. "Anyway. I'm gonna grab some coffee. You... uh, you want anything?"

"Tea," Ben says, so promptly that it's almost surprising. "Before you came in, I was going to see if there was any... I suppose I got distracted."

"I can --" Kurt starts, but Burt cuts him off with an upraised hand. There's a little box of Lipton by the side of the coffee maker, and a spigot for hot water, and he's pretty sure he can figure the rest of it out himself.

"I got it," he says, reaching for some styrofoam cups. "Maybe I ain't that much of a cook, per se, but I can make a cup of tea. Why don't the two of you just sit down."

It's not a suggestion, and he's not at all surprised when he peeks over his shoulder and sees Kurt leading Ben towards the chairs, with one hand on his arm. He is a little gratified, though, when he hears Kurt's voice a few seconds later. "Can I ask..." he says, a little hesitant. "What was she like, when she was younger? My mother. What was she like?"

And he's even more gratified to hear Ben give him what sounds like a totally straight answer. "She was... kind," he says. "Very moral, very compassionate. I think she... She enjoyed taking care of people, when she could." He pauses for a moment; Burt's tempted to look back over his shoulder to check the expression on his face, but he doesn't, in the end. "She was a good deal like you, actually."

Burt ducks his head and stares hard at the coffee he's stirring powdered creamer into, and he's not really sure if he's hiding his smile or the way his eyes have kind of filled up with tears. He closes them, just for a second, just to catch his breath. It's been a hell of a day, that's for sure.

And it's not over yet.

He opens his eyes again.

 

*

 

He wants to close his eyes, but he can't.

(flashing colors, plaid to stripes then squares fading into each other)

(EVERYTHING CHANGES)

(clouds moving across the sky, gray to red to black and the storm is coming, it's _coming_ )

Everything is so loud, so loud he can feel his bones vibrating, so loud he feels like he's shaking apart, and then a high pitched noise like a scream whistles through, cutting everything else out and it hurts and he just wants to close his eyes, but he _can't_.

(the moon, no longer obscured by clouds)

(insects crawling)

(dead fish with open eyes)

(WE ARE THE CAUSES OF OUR OWN SUFFERING)

Someone is talking to him, but it's backwards, backwards, he doesn't understand; he doesn't understand why it's all so loud, he doesn't understand why he can't just close his _eyes_ \--

(abandoned swings, still in motion, but with the children all gone and why are they gone?)

(GOD LOVES YOU AS HE LOVED JACOB.)

More screaming, and God, he just wants to close --

(the numbers, always changing, always the same)

(the _numbers_ )

He opens his eyes.

"Hey, Blaine," someone says, a tall kid in a blue and red Dalton uniform, and this is not the same room -- it's bright and clean, antiseptic, and it's quiet here, no drums shaking him, no screams slicing through. No one talking backwards. 

He closes his eyes, opens them again. It's reassuring. "Hey, Walt," he says, his voice weird and croaky, but he can feel his pounding heartbeat slowly subside back to something more manageable, and he knows it's over. 

Kind of. For now.

Walt grins, comes a little closer. He looks good in the Dalton uniform, looks natural in it, somehow. If Blaine didn't know, if he hadn't seen -- "I didn't know you knew who I was," Walt says, a little shyly.

Blaine swallows hard. "I know you," he admits, his eyes never leaving Walt's face. "You're... You're _special_."

"Yeah." The smile falls off Walt's face.

"I am too," Blaine says. "My dad, when he took me -- I don't know what they told you, on the Island, but it isn't true. Whatever it was, it's not true." He tries to sit up; he feels it's important to sit up, but he can't seem to make himself do it. "He's not a bad person; he's not -- he would _never_ \--"

He struggles, trying to sit up, but he can't. Why can't he just _sit up_?

Walt takes another step forward, his eyes worried. "It's cool," he says. "Blaine, it's cool. Don't worry about it."

There's something in Walt's voice that makes the struggle just die right out of Blaine's body. He relaxes, a little bit, closes his eyes, opens them again. At least he can do that. He sighs. "But he knew that I was special," he continues, trying to stay calm, "and he knew that if he didn't... He knew that someday, they'd --"

Walt bites his lip. "Yeah," he says again. "Yeah, I know."

And Blaine's stomach twists up a little, because he knows that Walt is younger than him, only fourteen, and he was even younger than that on the Island, when they put him in Room 23, and --

"Don't," Walt says, his voice surprisingly firm. "It would've happened anyway. And it's not --" He laughs a little, shakes his head. "I mean, no offense, man, but what I do? I made them stop. You couldn't do that. You can do a lot, but... not what I did."

"Okay," Blaine says, but he's still a little uncertain about the whole thing. Not that he really thinks that it'd have been different if they'd stayed, really, but. Still. Maybe he could have helped, somehow.

"You still can," Walt says. "You can still help, Blaine. But it's your choice. Like your dad said. Remember?"

Blaine shakes his head, uneasily. He doesn't know how Walt knew about that, but he guesses it doesn't matter much. What matters more is whether he can even make that decision, now. He's not so sure he can. Not so sure he wants to, really. "I got hurt," he says. "My dad, he won't want to --"

"He won't break his promise," Walt tells him. "Not to you."

"But... _Kurt_..."

Walt just smiles at him. "You and the spy, huh?" Blaine flushes a little bit, and Walt actually laughs. "Hey, man, whatever works. Anyway, you know what Kurt's gonna say. You two have history. He's not gonna let that go." He tugs at the thin blanket covering Blaine's body, pulling it a little higher up his shoulders, then straightens his blazer and takes a few steps back. "I'll see you at Sectionals, Blaine," he says. "But don't worry. We'll try not to kick your butts too badly." 

Blaine just blinks up at him for a moment, confused. "But... We're on the same..."

Walt shrugs at him, then turns and walks away. He looks back over his shoulder once, when he reaches the door. "Your dad'll be here when you open your eyes," he adds. "So don't worry."

And Blaine didn't even realize that his eyes were closed again, but they are. It's dark now, quiet, and nothing's loud, nothing hurts, nothing _feels_ \--

And he almost thinks he wants to stay here for a while, stay unconscious and pretend that none of this is happening.

But he wants his dad. He wants his dad _so much_.

 

*

 

It isn't a sudden thing, really. 

Blaine is restless from the moment Ben comes into the room, eyes moving behind his eyelids, lips shaping words that he can't quite put voice to. His head rolls a little on the pillow, his fingers twitching slightly as he fights his way free of the sedatives. There's nothing Ben can do to help him; he pulls a chair up to the bed, pushes the hair back from Blaine's forehead with gentle fingers, and waits for his son to come back to him. 

Blaine rolls his head. His fingers twitch. He mumbles in his sleep -- _got hurt... won't want to_ \-- and breathes a little faster. 

Ben closes his hand around Blaine's, twitching on the sheets.

He pushes the hair back from Blaine's forehead.

He waits. 

Blaine takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and his eyes flutter open. He blinks up at the ceiling for a few seconds, as if he's trying to figure out where he is, before opening his mouth to speak.

"Walt?" he asks, his voice raspy and faint.

Ben almost has to laugh at that, if only because it's so unexpected. "Sorry to disappoint you," he says, leaning in a little closer and squeezing Blaine's hand. Blaine's head tips sideways to look at him, his eyes widening a little, a look of relief sweeping over his face. And for some reason, it's that look that makes Ben's heart skip a beat, makes him feel like the unsteady world he spins on has finally settled into something stable. Safe. _Home_. It's that look that makes any other comments he was planning on making shrivel up and die unspoken, because there simply are no words for this moment.

"Dad," Blaine says, reaching out with his free hand, trying to roll onto his side to get closer. Ben reaches out instinctively to catch him as he struggles, his hands underneath Blaine's shoulders. Blaine's arms wrap around him and pull him close, and he is holding his son again, and the only thing that stops Ben from bursting into tears is that it would upset Blaine, and he doesn't want to do that. "Dad, I'm so sorry." Blaine's voice chokes on the words, and Ben pulls him closer.

"Don't be," Ben whispers, reaching up with one hand to stroke Blaine's hair. It's still stiff and sticky with gel, matted down with sweat and possibly blood as well, but he doesn't care so much about that. His son is alive; his son is _here_ , and that's all that really matters right now. "You did exactly the right thing. I'm very proud of you, Blaine."

"I --" Blaine's shoulders hitch with a muffled sob, and Ben holds him closer, trying to steady him. He's shaking, a little bit; probably just a delayed reaction. He must have been so frightened, a situation like that. But still, he did well. He did so well. "Dad, I _knew_ ," Blaine whispers. 

Ben blinks at the wall behind Blaine's right ear, because he's honestly not sure what Blaine's talking about right now. Some sort of dream, possibly? He was asking for Walt, after all. "What did you know, Blaine?" he asks, keeping his voice gentle.

Blaine shudders. "I... K- Karofsky," he says, stumbling a little over the name. "He... He went to Kurt, said he needed to talk, that he needed to... That he needed our _help_ , and I --" He chokes again, tears soaking through Ben's shirt, and Ben rubs his back in circles, murmurs nonsense into his ear, and all the while his mind is racing. Because his son is kind, despite everything he's been through; his son is gentle, and loving, and so willing to give and now his generosity has been taken advantage of in the most monstrous of ways, and although Ben knows that David Karofsky is under heavy police supervision at the moment, he's tempted to try his luck anyway. It would almost be worth it, just to see the look in his eyes as he --

Then Blaine sobs again, clinging to him, and Ben forgets about revenge, at least for right now. Because this is what matters most. Blaine matters the most. He always has. "Should've told you," he says, hands fisting in Ben's shirt. "I know, I know I should've told you, because I _knew_ that he -- But I thought we could help him; I thought..."

"It's not your fault," Ben says, pulling his son a little closer, mindful of his injured leg, heavily wrapped in gauze, and this should not have happened. His son was trying to do the right thing, trying to help someone. This should never, never have happened. "Blaine, this is not your fault."

"And I thought that if I told you, then I'd have to... To tell you what he did to Kurt, and I _couldn't_ \--" Blaine presses in tighter, more than a little desperate now. "Dad, what if all of it -- What if everything he did was just... to get to us. To _me_. Everything he did to Kurt, everything he --"

"It still wouldn't be your fault," Ben says, firmly. "None of this is your fault, Blaine."

"But if he --"

Ben shushes his son, still rubbing his back gently. "Blaine," he says. "You did the right thing. And if Karofsky... If he tried to take advantage of that, then that says more about him than it does about you, doesn't it?"

Blaine's quiet, for a few seconds, trembling a little bit, still crying. "He was waiting," he whispers, the words barely audible; Ben has to strain to hear. "When I got down to the basement, he was... And he smiled at me, you know, but just... just a normal smile. And I asked if I was headed the right way for the home ec room, and he said yes, and let me get ahead of him a little bit and that was when... That was when I felt it. The gun."

"Blaine," Ben says quietly, unable to stay silent, but unsure of what else to say.

"And he said I shouldn't try anything," Blaine says, shaking harder. "Because maybe he wasn't supposed to kill me, but he could... He could kill other people. And make me watch. And if I tried anything, he'd..." Blaine sobs harder, and Ben is already doing everything he can think of to make him feel better; he doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't know how to fix this. "And I knew he meant -- When he said that, he meant --"

"Blaine, I'm so sorry," Ben says, his own voice choking just a little bit. "I should have been there; I should have --"

"I just don't want anyone to get hurt," Blaine says. "I never wanted... And now Walt's telling me I have to stay, but if I do then something'll happen to Kurt, or his dad, or someone, and I don't... But Walt says I have to, and I don't know what to do, Dad. I just... I don't _know_."

Ben looks at the wall behind Blaine's head again, just for a few moments, seeking some sort of answer. There's none, of course; he's not sure why he would have thought that in the first place. "Why don't we talk about this later?" he suggests, as gently as he can. "When some of the... When some of the shock has passed. I'm sure Walt didn't tell you that you had to make your mind up tonight."

Blaine shakes his head, sniffles into Ben's shirt. "It has to be soon, though," he says. "Because your back, and... and Kurt, and... Dad, it has to be soon."

"It will be," Ben says, holding Blaine in place. "I promise you it will be."

And he holds Blaine close, even after he's finally stopped trembling, stopped crying, and he stares at the wall, and he wonders what exactly he's going to do about this. About Blaine, about Kurt, about David Karofsky, about everything.

For the first time in a very long time, he has no real ideas. 

 

*

 

He tries reading a magazine, after Mr. Anderson has gone in to see Blaine, but he can't focus enough to actually read it. Anyway, he's pretty sure he's read the whole thing before -- he's pretty sure he's read _all_ of these before, come to think of it. There wasn't a lot to do when his dad was in the ICU, after... And while Lima Memorial is well-known for some things, taking the time to update its magazine selection is clearly not one of those things. 

So he tries to watch the tv, like his dad, but it's another _Home Improvement_ rerun, and he's pretty sure he's seen that before, too. Because, again, not much to do while his dad was in the ICU, unconscious, hooked up to all those machines, and _Home Improvement_ is one of those shows that's always on somewhere. So he'd leave it on, just for background noise while he flipped through some magazine that he'd already looked at ten times before, and even if he never really paid attention to any of it, he still noticed enough details that they stuck with him. 

He can't help it. He hears Tim Allen's voice, and all he thinks of is a limp hand in his; he turns the pages of a magazine and in his head he hears the beeping of machinery, and he remembers thinking that this was never going to stop, that he was never going to get away from this, and now here he is in another waiting room, with the same stack of magazines and the same sitcom reruns, and he's tired of this, he's just so _tired_ of --

He pushes to his feet and goes to make himself a cup of tea to calm down, because he can't have a nervous breakdown over Jonathan Taylor Thomas. He just can't.

It's as he's dipping the tea bag into the hot water, watching the color bleed out of it, that he realizes how much of this is his fault. Not all of it, of course; he doesn't think so highly of himself as all that. And whatever... whatever connection Karofsky's family has to Blaine's, to the Island (whatever _that_ is), it started before Kurt met Blaine. Karofsky was in Mr. Anderson's class; he had to have figured something out. Maybe he was even there on purpose, maybe he took that class just to get close to him. Karofsky's smarter than he looks, it's possible he had at least some kind of a plan. Or his dad did, or something.

But Blaine... 

Kurt all but introduced them, didn't he? He didn't know, of course, couldn't have known, but... And he brought Blaine to the school. He didn't have to do that. He could have told Blaine to meet him at his house, or the Lima Bean, or... He could have gone to Dalton. At the very least, he could have told Finn or someone that Blaine was coming, had them look out for him, walk him down to the home ec room so he wouldn't be alone. He could have... He could have done so many things, if only he'd been thinking. If only he'd...

"Hey," his dad says, quietly, and just the sound of his voice is enough to make Kurt's eyes well up with tears, because... He could have told his dad. Why didn't he tell his dad? Why didn't he tell someone, sooner, and get Karofsky kicked out of the school? Why didn't he -- 

His dad's hand settles on his shoulder. "Hey," he says again. "Hey, kiddo. C'mon, don't..."

"This is all my fault," he whispers, and his dad squeezes his shoulder reassuringly.

"Kurt. C'mon, now, you know that's not --"

"Just --" Kurt grips the counter, leaning on it for support, and his dad's hand stays on his shoulder. "I should have _said_ something, I know I should. To you, or Mr. Anderson, or... or Mr. Schue, or anyone, but I thought... I thought he was _confused_ , I thought... I thought we could help him, if we just... if we talked to him, if he saw that he wasn't alone, maybe it could be different, maybe _he_ could..."

His dad is quiet for a moment, his hand still heavy and warm on Kurt's shoulder, not letting go of him for a second. "You mean Karofsky, right?" he asks, finally. "You thought Karofsky was confused."

Kurt hiccups a little bit; he doesn't trust himself to speak, so he just nods instead.

"And why would you think that, Kurt?"

"Because..." Kurt bites his lip, and God, it shouldn't be so hard to say this, after everything else, but it still... He still doesn't know how to say it. Because he can't... But he didn't want it. He never wanted it. He takes a deep breath, then another, trying to blink his tears back. "He kissed me."

His dad tenses up behind him, his hand tightening on Kurt's shoulder. There's a heavy silence. Finally, his dad says, "He kissed you," his voice surprisingly rough. "This Karofsky kid, the one who's been shoving you around and insulting you and... He kissed you."

Kurt nods again, unable to do anything else. God, even now, he can still taste it. Can still remember how it felt, Karofsky's hands, and his hot breath, and his lips and his _teeth_ , and...

"And I'm gonna guess you didn't exactly want him to do that," his dad continues, voice still rough. "Since you're shaking, and everything."

"No," Kurt whispers, choking back a sob. "No, I didn't... I _never_..."

"Kurt," his dad says, just his name, and Kurt can't take it anymore; he turns around and buries his face in his dad's shirt, clinging to him hard, and his dad's arms wrap around him, holding him close. "And you were gonna... After all that, you were still gonna help him." He doesn't even sound angry, which almost makes it worse somehow. He sounds... he sounds amazed.

"I just..." Kurt sniffles against his dad's chest. "He said he would... that he was thinking about... And we'd tried to talk to him, before, but he wasn't ready, and I thought this time he was, that he _meant_ it, when he said he..."

"Jesus Christ," his dad says, still sounding so amazed. "You are... You are one hell of a good person, Kurt. I don't know if you get that, just yet, but you are one hell of a good person."

And it's so absolutely the opposite of what Kurt was expecting to hear that he kind of forgets whatever else he was going to say and, speechless, just buries his face in his dad's shirt and breathes deeply, grease and gasoline and the tang of the garage, and lets his dad hold him up.

"I gotta ask, though," his dad says, after a little bit. "Just, you know, making sure, and all. But you did tell Blaine about this, right? That Karofsky was coming. He... He knew. Right?"

Kurt thinks maybe he should be a little offended at the question, and maybe he is, somewhere down deep, but he's already feeling too much right now and there's just no room for it. So he just nods, and takes a deep breath, and lets another flood of words come rushing out of him. "Because the last time we tried to talk to Karofsky, he... So I asked him, I asked Blaine if he thought he could, because we didn't have to, we could go somewhere else or he could help me tomorrow, or... But he didn't want me to break a promise, and he didn't want me to go alone, and he thought..." He squeezes his eyes tight shut at that, because it _hurts_ , thinking about how readily Blaine said yes, how willing he was to take that kind of a chance on someone who'd threatened him just a couple of weeks before, someone he had no reason at all to trust. And Karofsky knew they were trusting him, _knew_ they wanted to help, and he just -- "Why would someone do that, Dad? Why would... Why would he do that to someone who just wanted to help?"

His dad's quiet for a while, then he sighs. "Honestly, kiddo," he says, "I don't know. I don't know what makes people do the kinds of things they do sometimes. All I know is that you two kids have a hell of a lot of guts. And I'm real proud of you. _Both_ of you."

And there's something in the way his father says that that lets Kurt know that the two of them are no longer alone in the room, and he does his best to push the rest of his tears back, slipping out of his dad's arms and wiping his eyes quickly with his fingertips, trying to look composed for Blaine's father. The look on Mr. Anderson's face tells him that he's not exactly succeeding.

"Kurt," Mr. Anderson says, quietly, and something about the way he says it, the sympathy and the sorrow in his voice, makes Kurt start to feel a little fluttery, a little panicked.

"He's okay," he says, trying not to freak out too much. "Blaine. He's okay, right?"

Mr. Anderson musters up a small, weak smile. "A little shaken," he says, "and, of course, his leg... But he's fine, otherwise. And he'd... He'd like to see you. Unless you needed a moment?"

Kurt glances up at his dad, and his father nods down at him, a small smile on his face that's an eerie replica of the one on Mr. Anderson's. And there's something... Kurt's not totally sure what it means. But he's pretty sure it's a dad thing, the face that they're making. The way they're trying so hard to be brave. And he can be brave, too. For them. "No," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's... it's fine. I'd like to see him. Please."

Mr. Anderson just nods, reaching out, and Kurt lets him rest one hand on his shoulder, lets himself be led down the hall. 

Blaine is trying to prop himself up on one elbow as they walk into the room, trying and failing, his arms shaky, his movements slow and awkward, probably from the anaesthetic and the painkillers he's been given. "Blaine," Mr. Anderson says, his voice a little choked, but he hangs back and lets Kurt be the one to hurry to Blaine's side, lets him gently guide Blaine back down against the stark white sheets, fuss with the thin blanket. 

"Stop that," Kurt murmurs, not letting himself look at Blaine's face too much, trying not to look at Blaine's leg, either. It's hard to ignore -- the blanket isn't covering it, and Kurt can see everything -- the bandages wrapped thick around Blaine's thigh, the folded pillow tucked under his knobby knee to keep his leg elevated, his bare toes looking oddly vulnerable at the end of the bed. But he can't look at any of those things, because... because he can't, so he keeps his eyes on Blaine's blanket instead, tugging it up over his chest until his shoulders are covered. "You shouldn't -- you've been hurt; you don't need to --"

"Kurt," Blaine says, quietly. He lifts his hands up to cover Kurt's, and the blanket slides off his shoulders again. Kurt thinks maybe he should put it back, but Blaine's hands are wrapped too tightly around his, and he can't pull free. If he even wants to, which he's pretty sure he doesn't. "Kurt," Blaine says again, and Kurt finally manages to take a good look at Blaine's face -- his eyes red and puffy, his skin blotchy, his nose a little swollen. He's been crying, the same way that Kurt's been crying, and Kurt just can't take it anymore. He lets himself sink onto the bed, his hip near Blaine's waist, and folds himself down until he can press an ear to Blaine's chest and listen for the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Because he doesn't care how it looks, really, and he doesn't even care that he's doing it right in front of Blaine's dad. He just... He just needs this.

Blaine lets go of Kurt's hands, his arms coming up around Kurt's back and holding him loosely in place, and Kurt draws in a slow, shaky breath. He doesn't even feel like crying anymore, is the thing. He just needs to be here, right here, listening to Blaine's heartbeat. "Kurt," Blaine says for the third time, his voice a little choked now. "Kurt, I'm so sorry."

"You're okay," Kurt says, and clings to Blaine's shoulders. "You're okay, you're okay, you're _okay_..."

"I'm so sorry, Kurt," Blaine says again. "I --"

He doesn't finish the sentence.

"You're okay," Kurt whispers again, and presses as close as he can get to Blaine. "Just... Just as long as you're okay."

"Kurt," Blaine murmurs, and his arms tighten a little around Kurt's back.

Neither of them says anything after that. Not for a long time.

 

*

 

Ben's not gone all that long; obviously Kurt and Blaine don't want chaperones right now, not that they're gonna get up to anything. Crying, probably. Maybe hugging. Probably a lot of Kurt blaming himself and then Blaine blaming himself and the two of them going back and forth like that for a while. Which are all really tame things, but they're also the sort of things that are best done without someone's dad hovering in the corner. So Burt's not totally surprised that Ben's back in the room before he's had the chance to figure out whether he should sit back down or stay standing. 

He does, however, take it as a sign that he should be standing up for this particular conversation.

"They okay?" he asks, since it seems like a good, neutral place to start, and also because he's worried as all hell right now and could use a little reassurance.

Ben, being Ben, doesn't exactly provide. "That," he says, quietly, "depends entirely on your definition of okay." He crosses to a chair and sits down; Burt's tempted to take that as some kind of a sign, to try and apply some fancy psychology or body language or something to it, but he's pretty sure the guy's just worn out. Burt's had a hell of a long day, but Ben's had a longer one, and that's a fact. 

"Let's just go with yours, for right now," he suggests, still standing. "What is yours, anyway?"

"It varies," Ben says, with a little shrug. "Depending on the situation. Ordinarily, I'd say that they're about as far from okay as it's possible to be without either of them being dead. But. They're not dead. And right now, it's a little hard for me to care about anything else, so."

Burt takes his hat off, rubs at his bare scalp, puts his hat back on. The thing about Ben is that, if this were anyone else, he'd think that this was some kind of a put-on. Because he's saying things that most people wouldn't say, and if they ever said them, they wouldn't sound so freaking calm. But Ben's doing both, and it doesn't seem like it's an act. If anything, it seems like this is him dropping the act. Like this is what he's like when he's being totally and completely honest.

It's kind of unnerving, actually, but there's not a lot Burt can do but go with it.

"So," he says, leaning back against the coffee station. "How much of that did you overhear, anyway? Me and Kurt, I mean. Learn anything interesting?"

Another little shrug, just one shoulder. "Not particularly," Ben says. "I did hear that Kurt and Blaine... That they knew that David Karofsky was coming to speak with them, that they'd... invited him, to help him. But then, I'd just heard that from Blaine, so." He glances over at Burt. "I suppose Kurt blames himself for what happened."

"'Course he does," Burt says. "Yours?"

"Absolutely," Ben says. 

Burt nods, thinking about that. "So," he says. "Who're _you_ blaming for all this?"

Ben closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, opens his eyes again. "When I stepped into that room," he says, his voice very soft. "That girl, Santana Lopez -- she had the gun pointed at David Karofsky, and he was begging her to shoot him." He says it so matter-of-factly that it makes Ben's head spin, because... Jesus. "Because that's what these people -- _my_ people -- that's what they do to children. They ruin them." He glances up at Burt; Burt takes one look at the wide blue eyes behind his little round glasses, and immediately thinks of the picture hidden in his closet, of that skinny kid sitting on the swings next to Annie, and cold chills go down his spine. "That's why I took Blaine, why I ran. Because I couldn't let them do to him what they did to..." He doesn't finish the sentence. 

"You don't look ruined to me," Burt says, feeling awkward and clumsy for saying it. But the thing is, there's nothing else he can say, and he's gotta say something. Ben's putting a hell of a lot of himself out on the line; Burt has to at least say _something_ back to him. 

Ben shrugs, and drops his eyes back down to his lap. "I wouldn't be too sure about that," he says.

"Yeah, well. _I_ would. And I am. So." Burt pushes away from the coffee station, crosses over to the chairs, sinks down slowly in the seat next to Ben's. "So," he says. "These people -- your people. The ones you ran from. You think they're the ones who got to David Karofsky?"

"Yes," Ben says, quietly, and doesn't elaborate.

"Think they'll keep coming?"

Ben makes a small sound; it might be a sigh, it might be a laugh. It's kind of hard to tell. "It's been ten years, Mr. Hummel," he says. "At this point, I don't think they know how to stop."

Burt nods, and tries not to speculate too much on what that could mean. Ten years. He can't imagine ten years of dealing with this kind of bullshit. Hell, he can't even imagine what tomorrow's going to feel like. "Well," he says. "I guess maybe someone's gonna have to teach them how."

He hears that little, huffing laugh again. "You say that like you have a plan," Ben says. 

"Nope." Burt turns and looks at Ben, and their eyes meet again for a second. And the thing is, Burt knows that this is the dumbest thing he's ever done or will ever do. It doesn't matter that he doesn't know who Ben's people are, or why they're coming after him, or even if they exist at all. He knows this is outright stupid, if not suicidal. But the thing is, he doesn't really care. Because Ben was Annie's, once, and the way Burt sees it, that also makes Ben his, in a way. His responsibility. And even if he's not...

Hell, Burt's got a son, too. He knows what it's like, maybe not up on the surface, but down deep, close to the bone. He knows the fear and he knows the guilt and he knows how hard it can be, protecting something so fragile. Ben shouldn't have to go it alone. None of them should.

"No plan," he says, and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair. "But if I think of something, I'll let you know."

"You do that," Ben says, and their eyes meet just once more, and it's as solemn as a handshake.

Burt looks up at the tv -- Tim Allen's done something stupid again, and that bearded guy is running around with a fire extinguisher while the laugh track titters away. Sometimes, Burt wonders how people ever found this show funny. How he ever found it funny. Although he guesses it's easier to laugh on days when you haven't had to deal with someone pointing a gun at your kid.

Still, though.

"I hate this show," Ben says, his voice still completely level and calm.

"Yeah," Burt says. "Yeah, me too."

Neither of them gets up to change the channel; they just sit there, side-by-side, in silence, and the laugh track keeps going underneath it all.


	14. The Other Side of the Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So. What do we do now?"

__

1980

"There you are! I've been looking for you."

Ben startles at the sound of Charlie's voice, nearly dropping the flat of tinned goods he's lugging over to the open van; Charlie hurries to his side, taking the load from him before it can spill. It's surprisingly heavy, heavier than Charlie would've thought the boy could carry. But he doesn't say anything about it; he knows there's no point. "Should've known you'd be helping your old dad, there, eh?" he asks, giving Ben a smile, and Ben just looks at him, nervous behind his glasses. "Sort've thing you usually do, and all. Anyway, how about I just give you a hand here, and then maybe we can sit down a spell, you and I, and work on that Rachmaninoff, yeah? See if we can't sort out some of those arpeggios in the middle section that've been giving you so much grief. What d'you think of that?"

"I..." Ben chews on his lower lip, watching Charlie lift the tins into the back of the van, next to everything else. Hell of a load they've got today; must be going to the Pearl. "Um. My dad... My dad said..."

"Help you with something?" Roger asks, coming up behind Ben, his hands empty. Charlie's got to wonder just how much of the heavy lifting he's given to his son, how much he hasn't done. 

But he doesn't say anything about that either. "Just checking up on my best student, that's all," he says, clapping one hand on Ben's shoulder. "Making sure nothing happens to the hands, you know. Don't want to risk him."

"Huh." Roger eyes Charlie suspiciously, and Charlie stares right back at him, because maybe he can't say anything about the way Roger treats his son, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want Roger to know that someone's paying attention. Because he does. He really, really does. 

"Anyway," Charlie says, not taking his hand off Ben's shoulder for a second. The kid's still biting his lip, glancing nervously from his dad to Charlie and back again. "I thought I could borrow him, once the two of you were done here, get a little practice in. Since he's missed so many of his lessons, lately."

Roger shrugs at him, then turns to slam the doors to the van shut. "Not gonna happen," he says, and Charlie can feel Ben slump a little bit under his hand. "Not today, anyway. Got too much to do."

Charlie watches Roger cross around to the front of the van, opening the driver's side door and reaching for the key. "Well. Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow's his birthday."

"Oh yeah?" Charlie glances down at Ben; the boy gives him a small, hesitant nod. "Excellent. We'll have some of the other students come around, make a party out of it, you know. Bake a cake or something. Sound like a plan to you, Ben?"

Ben swallows hard, looking at his father, and doesn't say anything at all.

Roger looks back at the two of them, and for just a moment, Charlie's sure the man's going to say no. But then he looks a little past them, and his face smooths out, and Charlie doesn't have to peek over his shoulder to know who's standing behind him. "You make sure you're home in time for dinner," he says, pointing at Ben. "I don't want you out too late, you hear me?"

"Uh huh," Ben says, his voice very small, and he nods quickly, like he's nervous. "I won't be. I won't be out too late."

"All right." Roger glances past Charlie again, then shakes his head and slides into the front seat of the van. "C'mon," he calls, when Ben doesn't immediately follow him. "We got work to do."

Ben looks up at Charlie again, and Charlie smiles, pushing him a little forward. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says. "Birthday boy."

Then he steps back out of the way, watching Ben scramble up into the van, his stick-thin arm coming out to yank the door shut. Roger backs the van up, turns it 'round, and peels off away from the comissary, leaving Charlie and Kate to stare after him. 

"Out of curiosity?" Kate asks. "When did you get so invested in this?"

Charlie just shrugs. "Dunno," he says. "A while ago, I guess." He glances back at Kate over his shoulder, at the Dharma coverall she's always wearing these days, the gun slung at her hip, the way her arms are folded defensively over her chest. It's funny, really; she came to this Island in handcuffs, and now she's the sheriff. Funny how things work out sometimes. "How about you?" he asks. 

Kate almost smiles at him. Almost. "I don't know, either," she says. 

Then she turns and walks away. After a moment, Charlie follows her.

 

__

now

Kurt brings him a salad before he leaves.

"It's not much," he says, apologetically, as he hands over the small plastic container. "But they'd already shut down the hot food line, and it was this or a sandwich, and I thought... Because Blaine was asking me, the other day, about the diet that my father's on, and I thought maybe he'd prefer it if you..."

"Thank you," Ben says, quietly, and has to fight to keep his hands steady. It's not so much the salad itself, which honestly looks a bit bedraggled, and even if it wasn't, Ben's not particularly hungry. But the intention behind it, the quiet thoughtfulness of the gesture... It's both comforting and uncomfortable at the same time. Ben's not used to having any helpers, save of course for Blaine. 

He glances from Kurt to his father, still looming in the doorway, and sighs, and supposes he'll have to adjust. "Thank you both," he says. "For... For everything."

"And I thought," Kurt says, biting on his lip. "Since I'm kind of friends with a few of the Warblers, on Facebook anyway, and I'm sure they're probably worried, and I know you've got a lot to do, I thought maybe I could... you know, let them know. What's happening with Blaine. So you didn't have to do it. If... If you wanted me to do that."

Ben nods, gives himself a moment before he attempts to speak. "That would be... That would be greatly appreciated. Thank you, Kurt."

Kurt nods back at him, looking at him with wide, watery eyes. Then, much to Ben's surprise, he reaches out, wrapping his arms around Ben's shoulders; Ben freezes for just a moment, then very carefully hugs him back. He even rubs Kurt's back when he starts sniffling. It's a strange thing -- welcome, but strange. Then Kurt pulls back, wiping at his eyes with his fingertips. "Okay," he says, quietly. "Okay. I'll... Um. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

He's halfway to the door, his father already reaching out for him, when something occurs to Ben. "Kurt," he calls, and Kurt immediately turns to look at him, his eyes very wide. "What I said earlier, about Blaine and myself leaving, moving away... It may not have to happen, this time. I won't promise you anything, but... I wouldn't want you to worry too much about losing him just yet."

Burt Hummel's eyes settle on Ben, his face serious and maybe a little stern. But he doesn't say anything.

"Okay," Kurt says again, mustering up a very small, very faint smile. "I... I'll see you tomorrow. I'll call before I come."

And then he and his father are gone, and Ben is alone.

Sighing, he sits down, and contemplates his salad. The truth is, he has absolutely no interest in eating anything, and he's half-tempted to throw it into the trash. But he knows how much it must have meant to Kurt, to have that one small, useful thing that he could do, and he has no interest in slighting a gesture so sincere. Granted, Kurt isn't there to see, but... It's the principal of the thing. And anyway, Ben really should try to keep his strength up, particularly now that Blaine's been hurt.

He pops open the plastic container, and is struggling to free the fork from its cellophane sack when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's not the first time it's rung today; it's not even the first time it's rung since the Hummels arrived at the hospital. But it's the first time it's rung since they've left, and that's why he answers it without even thinking twice -- because he expects either Burt or Kurt to be on the other end of the line.

They are not.

"Hello, Benjamin," a voice says, and Ben tenses instinctively. It's been years now, but he knows that voice. He knows it very well indeed.

"Charles," he replies, and carefully sets the salad aside, rising to his feet. It is, of course, unlikely that Charles is calling from anywhere near the hospital grounds, but Ben's not willing to take the chance. "How did you get this number?"

He closes his hand around the baton in his pocket, preparing himself for the worst.

"I keep an eye on my daughter," Charles says, his voice clipped, terse. Even annoyed, as though Ben has somehow disappointed him simply by asking the question. There was a time when Ben dreaded that voice, when it rattled him, made him lose his composure. That time has, apparently, passed. "You'll do the same, one day. Assuming you get the chance. Which reminds me, Benjamin, why I called. How is your son?" 

 

*

 

_David doesn't want you._

He sits in his car, outside the police station, with the lights on and the windshield wipers flicking the rain away, the radio turned off because he's tired, okay, he's tired of these constant breathless updates like something _serious_ happened at that school, like something that _mattered_ happened at that school, and it doesn't matter in the least. It doesn't matter, and it's not going to stop him. He knows he can come back from this. He can come back from this. If he stops being a defeatist, if he stops thinking about what went wrong and why, if he stops thinking about --

_David doesn't want you._

\-- he can fix this. He can. 

What he needs to do, okay, what he needs to concentrate on, is getting back in Ben Linus's good graces. Because he was close, before. He was _so_ close. If David hadn't -- if he hadn't screwed it up like this --

But then, that's the thing, isn't it? Because David's the one who screwed it up. It wasn't him. He didn't have a damn thing to do with this. It was David. 

So all Leslie has to do, really, is apologize. Say he's sorry. Hell, maybe even break down a little, maybe even... Maybe even _beg_ if he has to. Linus is a soft touch; Leslie figured that out within five minutes of meeting him. He's not the cold-blooded killer the Others said he was, not the suspicious, paranoid fugitive he's been made out to be. He's quiet, timid, soft even; the kind of meek, self-effacing guy Leslie saw every day back in Tustin, passively accepting all the bullshit that admin threw their way and only ever complaining when something threatened their students, their kids. That's the kind of guy Ben Linus is. And if Leslie can turn this back around at him, if Leslie can make him feel bad about what's happening to David --

_David doesn't want you._

\-- about what's being done to one of his kids? He can get this back. He can.

And when he's done that, _then_ he can worry about Jennifer and David. 

Or hell, maybe he won't. Why the hell should he? What the hell did they ever do for him? He was better off without them. Not perfect, maybe, but better. All they ever did was drag him down. And sure, yes, he came back, but he would have done anything to get off that damn Island. This was never about coming home; he just wanted his damn freedom. And that's what he'll get, when this is over. He'll get Ben Linus, and then he'll get the hell out of Ohio, and that'll be it. He'll be free.

_David doesn't want you_ , she'd told him. _And honestly, Leslie? Neither do I._

And that's just fine by him.

He throws the car into reverse and peels out, leaving Jennifer and David behind.

 

*

 

"Don't try to blame this on me, boy." Charles is angry now, his voice low, almost growling. And the astonishing thing is that Ben isn't even really trying. Not yet, anyway. "I had nothing to do with --"

"Then why did you call me, Charles?" Ben asks, as mildly as he can manage. He paces the waiting room, hand still firmly wrapped around the baton in his pocket. If his suspicions are correct; if the information Holly's given him is correct, Charles is at least an ocean away, his people even further than that. But he's not quite willing to take the chance just yet. 

"Because I know you, Benjamin," Charles says. "I know what you are, and I know how you think. But you need to understand that neither I nor Penelope had --"

Ben almost, almost smiles. "Ah," he says. "So that's what this is about. _Penelope_."

"Now, you listen to me --"

"No," Ben says, straightening a little bit, even though there's no one in the room to see him. "No, Charles; I think that this time, you're going to listen to me."

 

*

 

He should've told Blaine to leave. 

It's all he can think about -- not his French homework, not the woman on the news standing in front of McKinley High, saying that _sources suggest that the shooting may have been an accident, but the question remains --_ not his grandma on the phone in the living room, asking "That sweet little boy? The one in the hat? Oh, mercy, and his father just out of the hospital, too..." 

Because he should've told Blaine to leave, even if he wasn't supposed to, even if he couldn't, really. He still wanted to. He still should have.

And it's not like he knows what's going to happen, not really. He gets bits of it, little fragments that come when he's told where to go and what to say, but he doesn't really _know_ what's going to happen. Blaine might; he probably does, what with the way he reacted, the way his face fell when he realized what Walt was asking him to do. That's probably why he's so scared, because he knows.

Walt doesn't know, not really. 

Which is why he should've told Blaine to leave, so neither of them would ever have to find out. 

But he couldn't, because it's not up to him. Nothing's ever up to him, anymore, and he _hates_ that; he hates --

A hard thumping on the kitchen door stops him, freezes him up. _Not again_. He's supposed to be learning to stop that, to not call them anymore, to not make them --

The thumping comes again, staccato, and he realizes that it's not him. It's someone else, someone knocking at the kitchen door.

"Grandma?" Walt calls. "Grandma, someone's at the door."

"Well, then you'd better go see who it is," she calls back, and immediately goes back to the phone. "And isn't that just the worst part? Because that's exactly what they'll say, that it's all because that sweet little boy is... Well, confused, and you know and I know that God doesn't work like that, but that doesn't stop people talking like He --"

More knocking, and Walt sighs and gets up. He doesn't like answering the door, even now; he knows that no one's going to bug him, that it's part of the deal his dad made -- his dad does what they tell him to, and Walt gets left alone; that's the rules. But Walt doesn't trust any of those people to keep their promises. They're all liars, even Dr. Burke; he knows they'd come take him in a second if they thought it'd help.

But his grandma told him to get the door, and his dad told him to do what his grandma said, so he takes a deep breath and straightens his blazer and pulls the door open, asking "Can I help --"

The question dies in his throat when he sees who's standing there, hand upraised like he was about to knock again. It's his dad.

The two of them stare at each other for a moment, and then his dad lets his hand fall to his side. He's not wearing a coat, and his shirt is soaked through; he's shivering a little bit. "Hey," his dad says, quietly. "Hey, Walt."

"You're not supposed to be here," Walt says, because it's the only thing he can think of to say. Because his dad's not supposed to come see him, and Walt's not supposed to go to him, and if they do that, then Walt gets left alone. That's the rules. And Walt's always known that the rules were going to be broken, someday, but he never thought his dad was going to be the one to do it.

"Yeah, well," his dad says, jamming his hands in his pockets. When he shifts, Walt sees someone behind him, a blonde woman in a black jacket, standing on the sidewalk, just watching. It's not Dr. Burke, at least, but she still looks familiar, like he's seen her before. Around Dalton, maybe, like a teacher or something. "I do a lot of things I'm not supposed to. Can I... Can I come in?"

Walt glances back into the kitchen, because he's not actually sure if... But his grandma's finally put the phone down, and she's standing by the kitchen table, watching them. She nods, her face grim, and Walt steps out of the way so his dad can come in out of the rain.

"Well," his grandma says, as Walt closes the door behind his dad. "You always did have interesting timing." She shakes her head, then turns and vanishes into the living room. "Stay there; I'll bring you a towel."

"Yes, ma'am," his dad says, and Walt looks back at him, not sure what to do. Because it's his dad, and he's happy to see him, he's missed him, but he's... He's scared. Because now the rules have been broken, and he doesn't know what's going to happen.

His dad turns to look at him, his head tilted to the side. "Hey," he says, quietly. "Hey, man, I don't want you worrying about this too much, okay? It's gonna be all right. I promise you. It's gonna be just fine."

And Walt doesn't really believe him, because he knows his dad lies too, sometimes. But he reaches out anyway, and his dad takes his hand, and he feels a little bit better just standing like that, with his father.

 

*

 

When Charles doesn't answer him right away, Ben takes the opportunity to press on, inexorable. "You broke the rules, Charles," he says, still staring out the window at the parking lot below him. So many cars, so many people. Any one of them could be working for Charles; any one could be a spy, an assassin, a kidnapper... But they aren't. He knows that now. "Tell me, what did you think would happen? When Ethan discovered your little secret? What did you think he would do?"

"Ethan," Charles says, his voice cracking just a little bit, "has no right to judge me. Nor do you."

"I have every right," Ben says, lifting his eyes to look at his own reflection in the glass. He wonders what he would look like now, to Charles. He wonders what Charles would see, if he could see him. But then, Charles never really saw him, or anyone else for that matter. "How many times did you tell me that I was going to have to choose between the Island and my son? And so I made that choice, Charles. Apparently, you weren't able to do the same."

It takes Charles a few precious seconds to recover from that; Ben isn't ashamed to enjoy every last one of them. "That Island is mine, Benjamin."

And that, it turns out, is enough to kill Ben's ability to savor the moment. He turns away from the window, stepping back into the center of the room. "And your daughter, Charles?" he asks. "What about her?"

"Penelope has nothing to do with this," Charles snaps, his voice rough with anger and something that sounds a little like fear.

"She does now," Ben says. "You should know that. You're the one who dragged her into this in the first place."

 

*

 

There are times when Wesley is so like his father that even Sun, who barely knows them, cannot overlook the resemblance. 

It's in the set of his shoulders, she thinks, the straightness of his spine, the steadiness of his hands. It's the calm in his voice when he says, "No, of course," and "I agree entirely," and "I think I can arrange something." It's in the quiet authority he carries, the way he says, "I wouldn't worry about that. They'll listen," as though the alternative is something unthinkable. It's not at all difficult for Sun to imagine Wesley taking his father's place in Paik Heavy Industries someday, rising to the same position of authority.

Except, of course, that she would never let him do that. 

Because while she doesn't know Wesley or his father that well, she can see the resemblance between them -- she hears it in the way he asks, "Kurt, are you... Are you all right?" She sees it in the way his shoulders slump when he says "Of course. Take it easy, Kurt," and the palpable exhaustion when he finally lets himself sink into a chair at the kitchen table, carefully setting his mobile phone down before he buries his head in his hands. Wesley cares, the way his father cares, and Paik Heavy Industries is no place for someone who cares.

If anyone would know that, she would. 

Sun takes a few steps into the kitchen, trying to move as loudly as she possibly can, but Wesley doesn't so much as twitch. She wishes, faintly, that she had Ji Yeon with her; her daughter is a fountain of sounds these days, babbling and cooing and laughing and only occasionally letting out little, irritated cries. But Ji Yeon is sleeping soundly, and so it is only Sun. "Wes," she says, quietly; he stiffens a little, straightening and wiping at his eyes with his hands. "Have you heard from your friend?"

Wesley nods, the gesture just a little jerky. "Aunt Sun," he says, not turning to fully acknowledge her. He's crying, of course; not enough to make his voice unsteady, but enough that he would want to hide from her. "I... Yes, I have. Not from... Not from him specifically, but Kurt was with him when the... When it happened, and he's been with him, since that."

"Is he all right?" she asks. "Blaine, I mean. Was he... Was he badly hurt?" She comes a little closer, wondering if it would be appropriate for her to reach out to him. She is not his aunt, of course, not really, and he knows that. But they pretend, the two of them, and it's often more comforting than she would have ever suspected. 

"He..." Wesley sighs, pushes one hand through his hair, and Sun pulls up a chair next to his, close enough that he can reach out for her, if he needs to. "Kurt said he didn't think it was too bad, but... I don't know. He sounded pretty upset, so... I'd have to see him; I can't really say for sure right now."

Sun nods, and when Wesley stops tugging at his hair and lets his hand fall down to his lap again, she reaches out to take it. He squeezes her hand, as if grateful for the contact. "Will you see him? While he's in the hospital?"

"No," Wesley says, quietly. "Not that... Just, Kurt says that Blaine's dad says that they'll probably let him out tomorrow, early, so. He'll be home by the time we get out of classes. But I'll go see him once he gets settled there. Saturday, maybe." He bites his lip, staring down at his knees for a second, then adds, quietly, "For the record, and not that I'm assuming you'd even ask for this, but if you did... I think probably you shouldn't come with me."

It is as close as either of them has come to acknowledging the reason why Sun is still here, why she hasn't already taken her daughter and rejoined her husband on the Island.

"Of course," she says, quietly. "I understand." And she wishes, just for a moment, that she could promise Wesley that her part in all of this was over, that in the future, she would do nothing that might cause his friends harm. But she cannot make that promise, as much as she would like to. It's already too late for that.

Wesley sighs, and tips his head onto her shoulder. "It's a shame," he says, quietly. "Because I think Blaine really likes you, too. And Ji Yeon."

Sun almost smiles at that, at the fact that he's still trying. That he still thinks that if he can only get her to know Blaine more, to _understand_ him, that she'll somehow call the whole thing off. And the thing is, it might actually work, if Sun was in charge. But she isn't, and there's not much she can do. She doesn't make the rules.

Not yet.

"I like Blaine too," Sun admits, quietly, and Wesley's hand tightens around Sun's. "And I'm very sorry that he got hurt."

Wesley takes a deep, shuddering breath, and is quiet for a long time. Then he says, "I don't hate you, Sun. You know that, right? I don't... I don't understand. But I don't hate you."

And that, more than anything else, is what makes Sun blink back tears. Because he _should_ hate her, for dragging his family into this. But he doesn't, and she will never fully understand why. "I know," she says, and rests her cheek against his rough shock of hair. "I know." 

 

*

 

There's a silence on the other end of the line, and then Ben hears Charles draw in a deep, unsteady breath. "If anything happens to my daughter, Benjamin --"

"You misunderstand me, Charles," Ben says, quietly. "Regardless of how I might feel about you personally, I have no such grudge against your daughter. And I'm not planning on doing anything to hurt her. But she _will_ get hurt, Charles. Someday, she will get hurt. And I promise you, when that day comes? You'll wish you hadn't chosen the Island over your child."

"Benjamin --" Charles breaks off before he can finish, and Ben almost wonders what he was going to say, whether he might have even apologized. But of course, he could never let himself do that. "You have no right to judge me," he says instead, and Ben just shakes his head. "That Island is mine. It has always been mine."

"And Blaine is mine," Ben replies, quietly. "And if I lose him because of you, Charles, I swear to you that I will burn that damned Island and everyone on it to the ground. And we'll see how much it matters to you then."

Charles takes another deep breath; it rasps through the phone, a little harshly. "The boy belongs to the Island," he says. "And someday, Benjamin, you _will_ bring him back."

Ben is still groping for some way to reply when a nurse steps into the rooms, glancing at him with expectant eyes. "I have to go," Ben says, before Charles can blame him for anything else. "My son needs me. Oh, and Charles? I'll be changing this number, so. Don't bother calling me back."

He hangs up quickly, sliding the phone into his pocket. "Sorry about that," he says, to the nurse, and she gives him a sympathetic smile. 

"It's all right," she says, quietly. "Family thing?"

Ben tilts his head in acknowledgement; it's as close as anything else, he guesses. "Something like that."

The nurse shrugs and rests one hand on his arm. "It happens," she says, still giving him that sympathetic smile. "Anyway, Blaine's all settled, if you're ready to --"

"Of course," Ben says, quickly. "Of course I am. Here, just let me --"

He picks up the salad that Kurt bought for him on his way out of the room, carrying it with him as he goes to his son.

 

*

 

They don't ever come to her; she goes to them. It's safer that way -- meetings arranged in neutral places, staged to look like chance encounters in case someone she knows sees her with them. It's important not to let it become a pattern. It's important that no one really thinks she knows them, that they look like strangers. So that even if everyone else is brought down, she can rise above. She can stay.

_I need someone that I can trust_ , Ethan had said, his voice low and almost sweet over the telephone. _I need you, Juliet. To do this for me. Please? You're the only person I can really trust to take care of this._

She'd asked him if he said that to all the girls, and he'd laughed it off. But he hadn't said she was wrong, either.

She glances over at Sayid, sitting on the floor in front of her sofa, glass of whisky in his hands, and thinks about asking him what Ethan said, when he gave him this assignment, if he said that he needed Sayid, that Sayid was the only one he could trust. 

She decides she doesn't want to know.

"So," Sayid says, eyes fixed on his glass as he toys with it, twisting his wrist and letting the liquid inside swirl around a bit. He hasn't really been drinking, just holding his glass; Juliet, on her third glass of wine, almost wishes she could say the same. But she doesn't, not really. Not when the hospital drama they've got on mute cuts to commercial, and it's the same 11 o'clock news promo she's seen a dozen times already -- flashing lights, swarming police, worried parents, two of Sue's Cheerios hugging each other and crying. And she's not like Will Schuester, or Coach Beiste, or Ms. Pillsbury, or even like Ben; she doesn't _care_ the way they do. But that doesn't mean she's happy, knowing that this is essentially her fault. A few glasses of wine won't take that away, but they do alleviate the sting a little bit. "Now what do we do?"

Juliet takes a deep breath, considers another glass of wine, decides to hold off for the moment. "I need to tell you something," she says, quietly. "None of the others know."

Sayid glances at her over his shoulder, one eyebrow slightly raised. "I'm listening."

"My last two reports to Mikhail bounced back," she says, watching Sayid's face. He doesn't react; one of the perks of being sober, she supposes. "When I reached out to the contact in L.A., she told me to sit tight and wait for instructions. That was two weeks ago." 

Sayid remains mostly expressionless, but there's something in his eyes, or maybe Juliet's imagining it. But it's something that she thinks looks a little like hope. "And you've heard nothing in that time."

Juliet shrugs and sinks a little further into the couch cushions, sipping her wine. "I did call, when I heard what had happened," she offers. "It went to voicemail. Needless to say, I didn't leave a message."

"But that doesn't answer my question," Sayid points out. "What are we to do now? Sit quietly and wait for instructions?"

"You have a problem with waiting?" Juliet asks, raising an eyebrow.

Sayid just looks at her, his gaze calm and steady. "Several, actually."

"Believe me, Sayid, I can understand why you might have objections." Sayid just shakes his head, and goes back to staring at his drink. "And I admit that waiting may not appear to be our best strategy. But I'm honestly not sure how many other options we have."

Sayid swirls his glass in his hands, watching the whisky slide up the sides, then back down again. "We could attempt to take them now," he suggests. "While they're vulnerable."

Juliet just laughs. "You're confusing _injured_ with _vulnerable_ , Sayid," she says. "I know you've seen the Portland file. Surely, you remember what happened to the last people to make that mistake? Anyway, Ben isn't injured. His son is. Ben himself is healthy. And, no doubt, out for blood."

"But you yourself said that the tumor on his spine was --"

"Enough to impair his movement, and it will be. Eventually. But not now." Juliet shakes her head, keeping her eyes on Sayid. She can't see much of his face -- just his profile in the flickering light of the television. But she thinks she might have just enough to read him, if she works for it. "And if it was, would you really still be considering this? Attacking an injured boy and his ailing, middle-aged father?"

Sayid keeps his eyes on the television. His hand trembles faintly, the whisky sloshing up the sides of the glass in a new way, something altogether different from the lazy swirling of just moments before. "I've done worse," he reminds her, his voice just a little hoarse, ragged around the edges.

"You have," Juliet says, because she's seen his file, and she knows _exactly_ what he's done. "And you'll have to excuse my saying so, but if you really do want to atone for those sins, Sayid, you probably shouldn't start like this."

He doesn't answer. 

Juliet sighs, and continues. "Anyway, even if we do manage to take them, we'll still have to _keep_ them until we hear from the Island. Even assuming that Ethan's able to push Widmore's men back, eventually, we have no idea how long communications will be down. It could take weeks. Months, even."

"Then it takes months," Sayid says, but there is a difference between his usual confidence and the false bravado he's displaying now. Juliet's never been able to read him, not really, but she knows that much.

"This isn't Baghdad, Sayid," she reminds him. "Nor is it Basra." His hand twitches just a little at the name; it always does. "This is Lima, Ohio. And regardless of how invisible Ben might think he is, here, people know him. They respect him. Some of them might even _like_ him. And they will look for him once he's gone. Tell me, Sayid, how long do you think we'll be able to hide? With an injured child and a sick man to take care of. How long before one of us gets distracted and Ben gets his hands on a weapon? Because personally, I think we'll be lucky to last a week. And that's assuming that neither Sun, Michael, nor Arzt betrays us. Which, frankly, they wouldn't be wrong to do. They've each got their reasons."

The words hang in the air between them, and she watches Sayid. She half-expects him to argue with her, to defend his fellow castaways, to say that none of the others would turn on them. 

He doesn't.

Juliet sighs and drains the rest of her glass of wine. "But," she says. "Ben will be impaired by the tumor, if he doesn't get it treated soon. And believe me, he is aware of that. Blaine won't be fully mobile for weeks. And I have no doubt that, although Ben doesn't realize how popular he is, he will once the first few fruit baskets make their way into that hospital room." She stretches her legs out, toes sinking into the carpet. "He's in no shape to run. As much as he might want to, it's safer if he stays. And Ben's the kind of guy who makes safe decisions."

"So we wait," Sayid says, staring into his whisky. 

"If you've got other things to do, Sayid, by all means, don't let me hold you back." He glances at her, startled; she pushes herself up off the couch, wine glass in hand. "Ben Linus might not be able to parlay a few months into a good head start," she says. "But I bet you could, if you wanted to." 

Sayid says nothing, but his eyes stay on her as she turns away, smothering a yawn with the back of her hand. "I'm going to bed," she announces, heading towards the kitchen. "The couch is yours, if you want it. Otherwise, lock the door when you leave, would you?"

She leaves the room without waiting for a reply.

In the morning, there's an empty glass in her kitchen sink and Sayid is nowhere to be seen. 


	15. After Shocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, there is no right thing to do, no way to fix it. Sometimes, the best you can do is make sure that no one's left thinking that they're going through this all alone.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Carl asks, for the fifth time that morning, and Emma suppresses a sigh. "You don't have to do this, Emma."

She adjusts the placement of her sandwich in the lunchbox, not because she necessarily feels the need to do so, but because it gives her a reason not to look at him. Which she should feel awful about, really; she should want to look at Carl. She _loves_ Carl. But right now, she doesn't feel the need to impress him, to be what he expects her to be. She doesn't care if he's unhappy with her, any more than she cares about what happens if her apple comes dislodged from its position in her lunchbox and smashes her sandwich. There are more important things now.

Like Brittany, crouched in a corner of the empty math classroom, clinging to Artie's wheelchair to hold herself up. Like Mike Chang's wide, frightened eyes and the way Tina shook as she stood just behind his shoulder, her hand wrapping around his arm so tightly that her knuckles were white. Like the weird, strangled sound Artie made when they heard footsteps pounding towards the room where they were hidden, the sound she's never heard anyone make before and never wants to hear anyone make again. Those are the things that matter now.

Maybe they won't matter forever, but right now, they're all there is.

"Carl," she says, closing her lunchbox and finally letting herself turn around. It's strange, the way she sounds like she's the calm one. She's not used to sounding like the calm one; in fact, some days she feels like she's constantly on the verge of screaming and the only way to keep calm is to find something she can clean, something she can fix. And yet, here she is. "I _do_ have to do this. Kurt Hummel and Santana Lopez were held at gunpoint by one of their classmates yesterday. They saw a boy get shot right in front of them. They're traumatized. Their friends are traumatized. The other kids in the school, the ones who heard the gunshots, heard the shouting, and didn't know what was happening or if they were going to be all right; those kids are traumatized too. They're going to need someone to talk to. Someone who'll listen to them. That's my job, Carl. I mean, literally. That is literally my job."

"But what about you?" Carl asks, folding his arms. There's something unhappy about him; Emma's not sure what it is, and she's not really sure that she likes it. He's supposed to be the one who understands things, or at least the one who accepts them. It doesn't make sense that he's fighting this. "You were in that building, too. Aren't you... I mean, come on, Em. No offense, but you freak out when I get ketchup on the counter. I don't understand how you're being so... so calm, all of a sudden. I mean, unless you're in shock, and if you're in shock, then I just really don't think you should be at that school right now. I know you want to help, but... "

Emma blinks at him, a little taken aback. Because it was _different_ for her than it was for them; that's the whole point. Because she was the one who went to the door when the police started pounding on it, demanding to be let in. She was the one who asked to see their badges, the one who waited until she was sure, the one who took charge of the situation. Because she was the one who knew what to do and how to do it. That's why she was in that room -- not so the children could protect her, but so she could protect them. It was different, for her, because it had to be. 

And it still does. And it still _is_. And she's not sure why that bothers Carl so much, but it obviously does, and she kind of resents him a little for that. For not accepting this side of her the way he's accepted everything else.

"I have to go, Carl," she says, picking up her lunchbox and heading for the door. "Have a good day, okay?"

"Em," Carl says, reaching out for her arm; she shrugs him off as delicately as she can. "Em, come on..."

He follows her out to the door, watches her get into her car and back out of the driveway. When she glances back at him, his eyes are wide and sad, like she's hurt him somehow, just by doing her job.

It stings, a little bit, but she ignores it.

He'll get over it, and even if he doesn't, she has more important things to think about right now.

 

*

 

There's a man with a metal detector standing at the entrance to the school, and Kurt feels a tiny twinge of relief when he thinks of all the outfits he could've worn today, but didn't. He's used to being noticed -- he did wear replica Alexander McQueen armadillo shoes to school for a week -- but there's a difference between being noticed for his bold fashion choices and being noticed for setting off the school's brand-new security system. And the denim shirt with the asymmetrical studded collar, the safety-pin pants... there's no way he would make it through the metal detector in those. He's safer in this, the gray cardigan and the loose-fitting jeans, no brooches, no boots, no accessories. Nothing to catch anyone's eye, nothing to call attention to himself. 

Not that it really matters, of course. Everyone's already staring.

He hasn't said anything about what happened in the home ec room -- not to Mercedes, not to Finn, not to anyone who isn't carrying a badge and a sidearm and he's pretty sure they're not releasing the details just yet -- and he's almost certain that Santana's keeping the same silence, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that he was _there_ , that Karofsky was coming after _him_ , and everyone at McKinley knows at least that much. He can see it in the way they look at him -- not quick glances, the way they used to when he'd come in wearing a fox fur tail or a black leather harness and everyone wanted to see but no one wanted to get caught looking -- but just... Staring. And staring. And staring, until Kurt can't keep his head up anymore, can't face them; it takes everything he has not to turn and run out of the building again. The only thing that keeps him moving is Finn's hand on his shoulder, Carole's hand wrapped around his, his father looming protectively behind them. His family.

It's weird, after all this time, to suddenly have a family. He's grateful; at least, he thinks he's grateful, or he will be grateful at some point in the very near future. Right now, it's hard to feel anything beyond a certain sort of numbed fear. It's like everything he felt yesterday -- the guilt, the grief, the sheer blind terror of it all, even the stunning relief of being able to press his cheek against Blaine's chest and feel the steady rise and fall of Blaine's breathing and the warm strength of Blaine's arms wrapped around him -- all of it has just wiped out him out and there's nothing left but echoes, a dull awareness of the things he would be feeling right now, if he could feel them. If he was capable of feeling.

But he must be capable of feeling something, because his heartbeat picks up a little bit when he hears Tina call his name. Because, when he lifts his head up and sees her flying towards him, a black-clad blur with her hair flying out behind her, his eyes prickle with tears, and his breath catches when they collide, Tina's arms wrapping around him and her weight knocking him back on his heels. Finn has to steady him to keep him from falling over, and he hears his dad say, "Easy there, kiddo," but Tina doesn't let go for a second. He's not sure she could if she wanted to, given that he's holding her just as tightly as she's holding him.

"We were so scared," she says, her voice shaky and her words coming faster than he's ever heard them, "because we heard it, Kurt, we heard the -- the shooting, but we didn't know, but then Mr. Anderson said he had to find his son and I knew that if he was here, then he was with you, and I was... I was so _scared_ , Kurt. I was _so_ scared."

"I know," Kurt says, pressing his cheek to her hair and rubbing her back, and it feels weird to be comforting someone else after what's happened to him, but it also feels... blessedly normal, in a way. Like he's still himself, like he can still take care of things the way he always has. Like this isn't going to break him. "I know. I was scared, too."

"And I just thought... I was just so _scared_ that you would be..." She buries her face in his shoulder and squeezes him even tighter. "I'm just so glad that you're okay, Kurt. You're _okay_."

Kurt swallows, because he's not entirely sure that that's true, but then he guesses it's true enough. At least, he could be so much worse right now, and he knows that, and he's grateful for it. "I am," he says, trying to sound steadier than he feels. "I'm okay, Tina. It's okay now."

She whimpers a little at that, and clutches him tighter, and he wishes he could just stay here like this for a little while, with her. But then he hears his dad clearing his throat behind them, and he realizes that he can't. So he pulls back, gently disentangling himself from Tina's arms but leaving his hands on her shoulders. "I'm okay," he says again, and even if it's not totally true, he can't regret saying it. Not when she looks up at him and gives him a tentative, tremulous sort of smile. "I'm okay."

"Look," his dad says, a little awkwardly, and reaches around Kurt to pat Tina on the shoulder. "I hate to do this, but we gotta borrow Kurt for a little longer, okay? Just for a little bit, and we'll bring him right back, and you can... You can talk all you need to. Or whatever. Okay?"

Tina looks up at him, bites her lower lip, nods quickly. "Okay," she says, her voice small and choked.

Kurt's dad sighs, drawing back. "Okay," he says, his voice kind of gruff, the way it usually gets right before he pulls Kurt in for a hug. But he doesn't hug anyone, just adjusts his baseball cap and sighs again. "Finn, how about you stay here with --"

"Tina," Finn says, quietly; there's a beat, and then Finn shakes his head. "Can't I just -- I mean, I know I'm not his _brother_ brother, not yet, but can't I just --"

Carole sighs, tipping her head to the side. "Sorry, honey, but I'm not even sure Principal Sue's going to let me in," she says, reaching out to rub Finn's shoulder. "It's the students and their parents only. No one else."

"But --" Finn protests, and Kurt reaches back to lay a hand on Finn's arm, because maybe they aren't _brother_ brothers, but he gets that Finn is scared right now; he understands that much at least. 

"It's okay, Finn," he says. "She probably just wants to talk about..." He waves his hand back in the general direction of the door. "Security, or whatever. So Santana and I feel... Feel safe here again."

His dad makes a quiet, scoffing noise behind his back; Kurt pretends to ignore him. 

"It's fine," he says, and pats Finn's arm again, and Finn nods and steps back.

"We'll be right back," Carole says, smiling bravely at Finn and Tina. Then her hand is wrapped around Kurt's, and Kurt's dad puts his hand on his shoulder, and the three of them set off down the hall again, Tina and Finn watching them go.

Of course, everyone is watching them go. Everyone is watching him, watching Kurt. 

He always knew that certain sorts of attention were awful, but he'd never realized that it could be this bad before.

But he keeps his head up, and holds tight to Carole's hand, and lets his family block the stares as he walks down the hall.

 

*

 

She watches Kurt and Santana walk out of the office (not her office, not anymore), their parents following protectively close behind them, and she thinks that this is what failure tastes like, this sourness at the back of her mouth. Maybe it's not failure -- maybe it's just all those dead skin cells she's inhaling every time she breathes -- but she's pretty sure it is. 

She failed. These kids needed her to look out for them, to protect them, and she failed.

"Sometimes," Emma says, still hovering behind Sue's right shoulder, the way she's been since before the Hummels and Lopezes walked into the office, red-eyed children and nervous parents standing guard, "in movies, when something awful happens, one person puts their hand on another person's shoulder. I've always thought that looked like it might be comforting."

It's an offer, and while Sue doesn't usually take offers of comfort from bug-eyed marsupials, she's feeling remarkably short on pride today. Which, considering what her pride has lead her to lately, is probably for the best. "I have my tracksuits specially treated at the drycleaners," she says, quietly. "There's this... It's Swiss; you wouldn't understand. But believe me when I say that absolutely nothing, no bacteria, no viruses, no germs of any kind, can survive on this tracksuit. If that helps you make your mind up at all."

Emma's hand hovers just over Sue's shoulder for a moment, then settles. It's a light pressure, but it really does seem to help.

"I'm not going to tell you that you're doing the right thing," Emma adds, after a few seconds. "Because I honestly have no idea what the right thing is, if there even is one. There may not be. There isn't, always. So... Do what you have to."

Sue swallows hard, and Emma squeezes her shoulder; not much, just a little bit.

The truth is, she knows that it's not really up to her. Even if she'd made her mind up to stay in this office, dead skin cells and all, the school board is probably already howling for blood. She'd be out by the end of the day no matter what. At least this way, she'll be out on her own terms.

But it's not just about that. 

"He would have been in the weight room," Sue explains, folding her hands on the desk. "If I hadn't kicked him off the football team, that's where he would have been. In the weight room, with the Beiste keeping an eye on him. But I wanted to change things at this school; I wanted his actions to have consequences. _Real_ consequences." She almost laughs; she would, if it were actually funny. But it's not. Of course it's not. "Careful what you wish for, right?"

Emma doesn't say anything to that. But that's probably because there's nothing to say.

Sue takes a deep breath and straightens in her chair, and as soon as she does, Emma's hand is gone. Sue misses it immediately, but of course, she can't admit that. 

"All right," she says, pushing her chair back and standing up. "I'm ready. Let's go."

 

*

 

The rest of the Glee kids are crowded around Kurt's locker, whispering and hugging and nodding solemnly and watching each other with wide eyes, and Santana knows damn well that she should be over there with them, letting them try to comfort her the way they're trying (and probably failing) to comfort Kurt. Because that's what they do, the Glee kids -- they stand up in front of the group, week after week, and let themselves bleed all over the place, and let themselves fall apart, and let everyone else come and put them back together. Santana's seen them do it. Hell, she's thought about doing it herself, once or twice. She's thinking about it now.

But she's not ready. She's just... she's not ready.

So she leans against her locker, and watches Mercedes wrap her arm around Kurt's shoulder, watches Finn hovering behind the two of them with this look on his face like he's trying to figure out some kind of really hard math problem (which, for him, is probably 2 + 2 = 4), watches Puck punch one fist relentlessly into the open palm of his other hand like he's pretending it's Karofsky he's hitting, watches him subside when Sam cuffs him in the shoulder. She watches Tina lean more and more into Mike, watches Rachel hover nervously by Finn's side like she wants to do the same but is suddenly afraid to; she watches Quinn, standing a little apart. She watches Artie, who keeps glancing back at her over his shoulder.

And she watches Brittany bend down to whisper something in Artie's ear. She watches her straighten up and move in to hug Kurt, wrapping long arms around him. She watches Brittany let go of Kurt, watches her turn and push her way out of the group.

She drops her eyes as soon as she realizes where Brittany's going. 

Not that it really matters, because it only takes about ten seconds before Brittany's hand is reaching out for hers

"Come on," Brittany says, reaching up with her free hand to brush back a stray bit of hair that's escaped Santana's (admittedly pretty sloppy) ponytail. "I know where we can go."

There are at least fifty really good comebacks for a sentence like that. Maybe more. 

Santana doesn't bother with any of them; she just lets Brittany lead her down the hall.

She does look back once, just once, at the comfort orgy that's still going on without her; she looks back over her shoulder and sees Kurt watching her. 

He nods. 

She nods back, and then drops her eyes again and lets Brittany lead her.

 

*

 

He watches Brittany pull Santana into the choir room, and wonders if he should go in after them. If he should do something, say something --

But he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know if there's anything he can say that will make this easier for them, that will fix this. He thinks, maybe, there's just... nothing.

He's not used to feeling like this around his kids. They've been through so much together -- the slushies, the bullies, the constant in-fighting, all the relationship drama. Sue's schemes, Rachel's egging at the hands of her ex-boyfriend and the rest of Vocal Adrenaline, Quinn's pregnancy and all that came with it; they got through it together, and he helped them, or at least he tried. He never doubted that; no matter what happened, he would be able to do something to help make it right.

And then he stood, frozen in the doorway of the home ec room, with that Dalton boy bleeding on the floor and Kurt bending over him, trying to stop the blood with his own two hands, and David Karofsky slumped against the wall with his nose broken and even more blood streaming down his face, and Santana clutching that gun, absolutely terrified, and there was just... 

There was nothing. Absolutely nothing he could do.

"Sucks, doesn't it?" a voice asks from behind him, and he turns to see Holly, dressed down in a black sweater too big for her thin frame, black pants. Like she's in mourning. "Feeling helpless."

"Yeah," Will says, quietly, and turns back to the choir room. Brittany has her arms wrapped around Santana, her cheek pressed to Santana's hair. It's too far away for him to see if they're crying, but he's pretty sure they are, and he just wishes he could do _something_.

"It was Artie," Holly says, coming to stand next to him, her shoulder brushing his. "For me, I mean. I was standing at the whiteboard, getting ready to teach my first math class since... Well, since the last one ended in me getting punched in the face, and Artie wheeled in and took one look at me and just... wheeled himself right back out again. I mean, he came back -- I think he just needed a minute or whatever, but -- I could just tell, you know? That it was hitting him that this was real, that this was really happening, and there was just nothing I could do to make it easier for him. Nothing at all."

"Tell me about it," Will says, and turns away from the choir room, because he knows he's about to reach that point where despair turns into anger, and he's not sure where he wants to be when that happens, but at least he can stay away from Santana and Brittany, who've already been through enough.

Holly keeps step with him, hands in the pockets of her sweater. "I almost didn't come back, you know," she admits, her shoulder bumping up against his again. "Back here. Which might not sound so bad, except... See, Ben and I kind of hit it off, when you were sick and I took over your classes and whatever, and I guess he actually requested me as his sub. Because he thought... I don't know. That I could handle it. That I could take care of his kids for him, while he was gone. And I just... I knew I that I couldn't. I couldn't make this okay for them. No matter how hard I tried."

Will glances over at Holly -- her hair hanging in her face, shoulders slumped. And it's ridiculous -- he knows it's ridiculous -- but he can't help but feel almost... resentful. Not of her, necessarily, and not of Ben Anderson either, because he saw the look on the man's face as he bent over his injured son and you don't forget something like that, you just don't. But he can't help feeling, somehow, that the two of them know something that he doesn't, that there's some kind of secret they're sharing, and he doesn't like that feeling, not one bit. "So why are you here?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice gentle, to not let the anger out.

"Because," she says. "Because none of us can make this okay, not really. Not you, not Principal Sue -- or Coach Sue, or whatever -- not that adorable little redhead in the guidance counselor's office, not Ben..." She sighs. "What happened happened, and we can't take that back, and we can't wish it away. No matter what we try, we're all just... stuck. Trying to deal with it. And so are they." She gestures vaguely back at the choir room. "Brittany and Santana and Artie... And I guess I just figured that even if I couldn't fix it, I could at least be stuck here with everyone else, and maybe that would be something. I don't know. That sounded a lot less fatalistic and depressing in my head."

He almost laughs at that, almost. "Yeah, well," he says. "That's kind of how responsibility works, most of the time. Fatalistic and depressing."

"Seriously?" He wants to think Holly's joking, but the tone of her voice is one of sincere disbelief. "That's a bummer. I was hoping there'd be some kind of... You know, like it sucks, but then it works out, and the kids are all singing, and there's like... sunlight, or something. So it's worth it."

"Sorry," Will says, with a shrug. The truth is, he knows that he'll be looking for that moment too, in another few days. Waiting for everything to make sense. It seems so hopeless right now, like he'll never understand, like it'll never make sense and he'll never know what to do, but... That fades; he knows that much. He'll forget, and then he'll start believing in sunlight and music again. Just like Holly. So it's really not fair for him to dump on her like this, when they're not really that different. "Sorry," he says again. "But there is expensive beer. If you're still interested in that."

Holly's shoulder brushes against his again, a lot more deliberate this time. "Hmm." She smiles at him, just a little bit. "I don't know, though. I've found that where there's expensive beer, there's usually crazy jealous ex-wives, too. And I'm not sure I'm up for that tonight."

Will smiles back, a little ruefully. "Yeah," he says. "No, I... I mean, I'm pretty sure that part's over and done with, but... part of the problem with crazy ex-wives is that they're usually unpredictable, so... no guarantees."

"I'm not asking for a guarantee, Will," Holly replies, her arm grazing his as she walks a little closer. "They're kind of not my thing, you know?" She glances his way again. "So. You're 'pretty sure' no crazy ex-wives are gonna crash our pity party this time?"

"Pretty sure," Will says again, echoing her. This time, he's the one to bump up against her, his fingers brushing the pocket of her sweater, just feeling the shape of her hand still tucked inside. "Is that good enough for you?"

Holly stops in the middle of the hallway, pulls her hands out of her pockets and folds her arms across her chest; Will gets the weirdest feeling that she's scrutinizing him, looking for something. He has no idea what it could possibly be, and doesn't feel confident enough to ask today. "Seven o'clock," she says finally. "Your place. You provide the beer, I'll bring the pizza. And _Stand and Deliver_ , in case we need a good cry."

"Sounds like a plan," Will says. He thinks about reaching out to touch her shoulder, but decides that's probably not the best idea. Instead, he just... walks away.

Holly doesn't follow him this time, but after a few seconds, he hears her calling out. "Hey, Will?" When he turns, she's watching him, arms still folded. "Thanks."

He just blinks at her, a little confused. Because he's not totally sure what just went down between the two of them, but he's pretty sure she helped him, and not the other way around. "You're welcome," he says. "But, um, I'm not sure what you're thanking me for."

Holly just shrugs. "I guess... Thanks for not knowing what you're doing," she says, finally. "I would have felt pretty stupid if it turned out I really was the only clueless one wandering around, so. Thanks."

Will nods. "You're welcome," he says again, and walks away.

 

*

 

Thinking is not always the easiest thing to do. 

The problem is that there's so much... There's so much _stuff_ , in the world. In the school. In one room, even. Like, she'll be sitting in class trying to think about Spanish, but when she looks up Jacob ben Israel's hair is just sort of... floating there, like it's trying to fly away from his head, and it really is like a cloud, which is _cielo_ in Spanish, which is like Cee-Lo, and how come people use "Fuck you" as an insult when mostly people fuck the people they like, so getting fucked should be a good thing, or at least not awful? Which is why "Forget You" makes way more sense, because Brittany forgets a lot of things sometimes, like her middle name and whether Teddy Roosevelt was a person or a bear, but that's only because those things aren't important enough to be remembered. She never forgets anything that's really important, except for that time she forgot to hide Lord Tubbington's lighter so he couldn't smoke while she was out of the house. And did she hide the lighter today, because she really doesn't want Lord Tubbington to start backsliding again, and also he likes to sleep a lot and everyone knows that if you fall asleep while smoking, you'll burn the house down and die, and she doesn't want him to do that, and his fur makes him highly flammable.

She wonders if Jacob ben Israel's hair is flammable.

She wonders if he smokes, because if his hair is as flammable as it looks, he probably shouldn't.

Didn't Michael Jackson set his hair on fire once?

And then Mr. Schuester asks her a question, but she's still thinking about Michael Jackson, so she says "Pepsi," and he gives her that look again.

And that's the problem with thinking. 

So when she has to think about something serious, when she really actually has to think about it, she tries to find someplace quiet to do it, someplace without a lot of stuff. She tried the janitor's closet, but there were too many buckets and gloves and things, and then she found Mr. Kinney's vodka teapot and he got mad. So then she tried the astronomy room, because no one has classes in there anymore and seriously, why do they have astronomy in a Muggle high school; or if they're all witches, why hasn't she gotten to transfigure anything yet? But the astronomy room had all those planets and stars in it, and Brittany likes planets and stars and things, but she can't get over how they're all made of gas, and she's not sure which gas, and is it gas like a car or is it gas like when Puck lights his farts on fire, and could he power a car that way? And so then she had to go under the teacher's desk so she couldn't see the planets or the stars, and then like five different couples came in and made out on top of the desk, and she couldn't leave. And it was kind of fun, listening, because everyone seemed to be having a really good time and she likes it when people are having a good time, but it wasn't exactly easy to think under those sorts of circumstances.

So then she gave up on the astronomy room. And then the girls' bathroom, because way too many people in this school will talk to you while you're pretending to poop. And then the auditorium, because every time she managed to get a really good train of thought going, Rachel would come in and start singing and usually Brittany actually likes hearing Rachel sing (she likes it more than hearing her speak, anyway), but _come on_.

But the choir room is actually surprisingly good for thinking. Most of the kids at McKinley won't go near it because they think they'll catch gay, and then everyone who doesn't care _how_ much gay they catch would rather go to the auditorium than the choir room, because the choir room doesn't have spotlights. So Brittany can have the whole room to herself, if she wants to. Because she's pretty sure you can't actually catch gay (seriously, that's super dumb, even to her), and even if you could, she probably already has, and as long as it doesn't give her a stuffy nose or a fever, then she's fine with it. 

And there's not a lot to get distracted by, in the choir room, except for Brad and the piano and the acoustic tiles and maybe some chairs and Mr. Schue's awful taste in posters, and she's mostly used to those things by now. Sometimes she still thinks about them (mostly when Brad starts moving around), but mostly she doesn't need to. They're just there. 

So Brittany can sit, alone and uninterrupted, and just think about things for as long as she needs to, until she's done.

Or she can sit with Santana, with Santana's head in her lap and Santana's ponytail undone, and Santana's hair soft and sliding between her fingers as she rubs Santana's scalp. Which is not necessarily thinking, but sometimes it's just as important.

And the thing about thinking is that sometimes it's totally unnecessary anyways. Sometimes you don't have to think about what you're going to do.

Sometimes you just know.

"You know how, sometimes, I get confused on what day it is?" Brittany asks, keeping her hand moving steadily, petting Santana almost like she's Lord Tubbington, only with longer fur and no lingering smell of smoke.

Santana sighs. "Look, I'm telling you, it's not a big deal. Everyone forgets what day it is sometimes. Hell, I'm pretty sure Mr. Schue is still convinced it's 1997. Seriously, he wore a bolo tie to school the other day. A _bolo tie_. I thought Hummel was going to strangle him with it."

"Kurt wouldn't strangle anyone," Brittany points out. "He'd think about it, but actually having to do it would make him cry. One of us would have to do it for him."

"Well," Santana says. "That got morbid fast."

Brittany frowns. She's usually pretty good about figuring out words she doesn't know -- she breaks them down into pieces until she finds a piece she knows, and then rebuilds the word from there. And she knows "more," and she knows "bid," but she doesn't understand how either of those things fit into a conversation about Kurt strangling people. "Why are we talking about auctions?" she asks, puzzled. 

Another sigh, and Santana resettles herself, so she's more comfortably in Brittany's lap. "That's not what _morbid_ means, Brit," Santana says, reaching up with one hand to pat at Brittany's cheek. "It means... Don't worry about what it means. And don't worry if you don't always remember what day it is. If you have to go to school, I'll call and remind you. I always do. I even did it when we weren't supposed to be talking, remember?"

"I remember," Brittany says, because she does. She remembers every single thing Santana's done for her. She even has them written down in her diary, just in case she forgets. She doesn't want to forget Santana, because Santana is _important_. But she hasn't, yet, and she doesn't think she will. She doesn't think she _could_. 

"You don't have to call me to tell me what day it is," she adds, because Santana would. She wouldn't do it for just anyone, but she'd do it for Brittany. "Just, if I ask. Don't worry about whether I need to know or whether it's important. Just tell me what day it is. Okay?"

Santana's eyes open; she looks up at Brittany for a long time, and doesn't say anything. "Sure," she says, finally. "Of course." Then she closes her eyes again. "Are you _sure_ Berry's not going to burst in and start singing at us?" she asks. "Because I keep thinking she is, and it's totally harshing my mellow. I'm supposed to be relaxing, not getting all tense."

Santana is about as tense as... as something that isn't tense at all. But Brittany's not going to point it out. "Rachel likes the auditorium," she says. "She likes the homeless guy who lives in the light booth. Apparently he's a good audience. And since he doesn't leave the booth, he's too far away to smell. So she doesn't have to worry about gagging at important points in the song."

"Hmm." And Santana melts back into Brittany's lap, and Brittany keeps stroking Santana's hair, and she doesn't really think about anything.

There's nothing to think about. She already knows just what she's going to do.


	16. Ask Me No More Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carole visits the Andersons at the hospital. And so does someone else.

Most of the time, Blaine thinks of himself as a reasonably independent person. 

Yes, he relies on his dad for a lot ( _so_ much, sometimes), and yes, they're closer to each other than a lot of fathers and sons are. But he still does things for himself -- he drives his own car and he packs his own lunches and even if his disarming technique could use a little more work, he's still a lot better at fundamental self-defense and firearm use than most kids his age, which is something. 

Or it _was_ something, until he got shot in the leg and they took him to the hospital, pumped him full of painkillers, wrapped him up in gauze, threw away his contact lenses, and put him in this room, with its bed and its chair and its curtains and absolutely nothing else that he could hold on to, like a couch. Or some shelves. Or maybe a walker; he'd love a walker. But he doesn't have one. 

And so now he's stuck standing on one leg in a thin, paper nightgown, holding onto his bedrail for support, trying to figure out how he's going to make his way across ten feet of tile floor to the fuzzy dark hole in the wall that he's mostly sure is the bathroom, because he may not be as independent as he would like to be but that doesn't mean he's going to wake his father up just because he's not 100% sure he can reach the bathroom on his own. 

And yes, he could probably call a nurse (or he could have, before he stood up, but now he kind of feels committed so he can't), but the thing is he doesn't want her to wake up his dad, either. He doesn't want anyone to wake up his dad because he knows his dad barely slept last night and he needs all the sleep he can get, and granted, if Blaine falls, he will almost certainly wake up his father, but that's okay because he's not going to fall. Because he can do this. He is independent. He stands on his own two feet.

And, if necessary, he will stand on his one feet.

Foot.

Whatever.

And with that in mind, he takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and very, very carefully lets go of the railing of his bed. He wobbles, a little bit, but then he catches his balance and manages to stand steady. For a second. 

Then the door is creaking open and he startles, hopping backwards and smacking his bandaged leg against the bedrail. It _hurts_ , and the only thing that keeps him from crying out is the fact that his dad is right there, sleeping, and he doesn't want to -- So he chokes it back, just barely, letting out the quietest groan he can muster as he sinks back down to the bed, eyes flooding with tears. 

"Oh my goodness," a woman says from the doorway, her voice way, _way_ too loud, and Blaine starts shaking his head at her, but she obviously doesn't get it, because she just keeps talking. "Oh, honey, are you --"

"Sssh," Blaine hisses, flailing his hand in the general direction of the chair where his father's stirring, just a little bit. "He didn't... He's really, really tired. He needs to sleep. Please?"

"Sorry," the woman stage-whispers back. "Sorry, sorry." 

Blaine blinks at her, trying to figure out whether she's a nurse or a florist or one of his dad's colleagues or what, but all he really sees is a blurry mess of russet and rust. _Think fall_ , Kurt had said, yesterday, before Karofsky and Santana and that horrible moment when Blaine realized that no matter what Karofsky meant to do, someone was going to get shot. _Fall wedding colors._

He bites his lip, tightens his grip on the bedframe, and tries really, really hard not to cry -- not because his leg hurts (although it still does), but because... Because everything hurts, if he thinks about it.

"Oh honey," the woman says again, setting something down on the floor next to her. It's brown and squarish, and it looks a lot like... "I'm so sorry. Are you hurt? Do you need --"

"Is that my bag?" Blaine asks, a little hopefully. Because his glasses are always in his bag, so if that is his bag, then his glasses are in it, and if his glasses are in, then maybe he can have them. "Is it --"

"Yes," the woman says, slowly. "This is yours. You left it in your car; Kurt thought that maybe you'd want it, so he asked me to --"

"Please may I have my glasses," Blaine says, the words running out superfast, so fast it makes him feel a little dizzy.

"You want your... glasses?" the woman repeats, sounding a little confused.

Blaine nods, which makes him dizzier. "Please?"

There's a pause, and then the woman says "Of course, of course," turning to crouch down on the floor by Blaine's bag. She hesitates for a second, then stands back up and does something with the wall ( _foam_ , Blaine thinks; it's the hand-sanitizing foam the nurses use every time they come into the room. _Foam in, foam out_ ). Then she crouches back down again, messes with his bag a little bit, stands up, foams again, then finally, finally makes her way over to where Blaine is sitting on the bed, waiting as patiently as he can. She holds out the leather case with his glasses in it, and Blaine fumbles them out, slides them on his face, and suddenly everything is so much clearer -- not perfect, maybe, but still okay.

"Oh, those are _flowers_ ," he breathes, eyes settling on the the array of brightly-colored blooms in vases and baskets, crowded tight together on the room's one small dresser. "I thought it was something to do with the wallpaper."

The woman laughs a little bit, sinking down on the bed next to him. She pats his hand; she has nice nails, and a pretty ring on her third finger. He wonders if it's the wedding hand or just the engagement hand; he's never been too good at knowing which is which. "Yep," she says, smiling at him; she's older, but pretty. Really nice hair, and her coat looks great on her. "Those are flowers. You know, I hate to say it, but I almost hope you don't get too many more of those. I don't know how Kurt's going to fit all that in the Navigator, unless he straps Finn to the roof."

Blaine blinks at her, confused. "You know Kurt?" he asks.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," the woman says, loudly enough that Blaine glances nervously over at his father; he shifts, turning his face into the cushioned back of the chair, but doesn't wake up. "Sorry," the woman repeats, whispering it this time. "I can't believe I didn't -- Honey, I'm Carole. I'm Kurt's stepmom. Or I will be, anyway, once we..."

"You put up the owl clock," Blaine says, weirdly pleased to be able to make some kind of a connection. "Right? The owl clock; it's yours."

Carole smiles at him, and she really is really very pretty; Kurt's dad has good taste. "That's right," she says, patting Blaine's hand again. Her ring distracts him; he can't help reaching out with his other hand to try and hold her restless fingers still, just so he can get a better look at it.

"So..." He cocks his head, looking at her, trying to figure out which hand he's currently holding. "Engagement rings go on your right hand?"

"Right again," Carole says, still smiling. She shakes her head. "Honey, I hope your leg doesn't hurt too much right now, because I really doubt they're going to give you any more pain medication. Not for a long time."

"No... It... It's fine." Which is mostly true; it's not really _fine_ fine in the sense that an ordinary fine leg is fine, but it's a lot better than it was when he got shot, and he still remembers the way that felt, remembers it well enough to keep perspective. "It's fine," he says again, and looks up at her, and manages to smile.

Carole's smile seems to falter, for some reason; she looks down at their hands, still linked on top of the thin hospital blanket, and takes a deep breath. Then she glances back at Blaine's father, still curled on the chair, his face pressed into the cushions. Blaine's not totally sure, but he thinks his dad might be drooling a little. He hopes that's not going to be embarrassing for him, later. "So," Carole says, her voice soft. "How long has he been out?"

Blaine shrugs. "A while?" he says, wishing he could be more specific. But he doesn't have his watch anymore, and he couldn't see the clock without his glasses. "Signora Holliday was here. Although I guess if she's teaching math this week, then she's not a Signora anymore. But she was here, and then I had breakfast, and then I took my pills and that part's a little fuzzy, but then the next time I saw him, he was asleep." He smiles over at his father, because even if he's drooling it's still nice that he's finally asleep. But then he frowns again, because his father's asleep sitting up, and that can't be good for his back, and his back is still... "But I can't wake him up," he reasons, "because then he won't go back to sleep again. He's pretty stubborn."

"Dads are like that," Carole says, quietly, and squeezes his hand. "Were you... Were you going somewhere, when I came in?"

And just like that, Blaine really, really has to go again. But now he can't go, because he has a guest and that's rude, so he just stares down at his lap and tries to make his face be less hot and uncomfortable. It's hard -- his face is really hot. He must be blushing pretty bad.

"Let me guess." Carole's voice is somehow dry and warm at the same time. He's not sure how she's doing that, but she is. "Bathroom?"

Blaine blushes harder and squirms a little, because now he's thinking about it and it's even worse, but he doesn't want to -- "It's fine," he says again, still staring at his lap. He kind of wants to take his hands back now, but he thinks that might be rude, too, and he doesn't want to be rude.

Carole just sighs. "Blaine," she says. "I've raised a son too, you know. Believe me, it's nothing I haven't been through before. Actually, there was this one time, when Finn had this really bad --"

"No, really." But Blaine's voice is very small, and he squirms again, and he really really has to go. "It's fine."

Carole pats his hand again, then lets go and pushes herself up off the bed only to lean in again and pull Blaine's slightly noodley arm around her shoulders. "Come on," she says, wrapping one arm around his waist, and Blaine realizes that the only way he can stay on the bed is to fight her, and he doesn't want to do that because she's very nice and her hair is pretty and she's about to be Kurt's second mom, so he leans on her and gets his foot under him and very, very carefully stands up again. And it's weird, because he doesn't know her and yet they're basically kind of cuddling and he's pretty sure he's wearing more bandages than actual clothes right now, but before he has time to second guess it, she's saying "Okay. Let's do this," and taking a step forward and he has to hop forward with her to keep from falling over. It's not easy, but Carole steadies him, and he has to wonder, briefly, if he really would've been able to do this on his own. "Okay?" she asks.

He glances over at her; her eyes are resolutely focused on his face. He always thought he'd be better-dressed when he met Kurt's stepmom. And that he'd have clean underwear on. "I'm sorry I'm gross."

She smiles at him, coaxes him through another few hops. "Trust me, I've seen worse." They take a few more steps (well, she's stepping; he's still hopping) towards the bathroom, and then he wobbles again, and she stops, letting him use her for a crutch, so he can catch his balance. "But if it helps at all, I brought you a change of clothes. I can get them while you're in the bathroom, if you want."

Blaine very carefully pivots on his good foot so he can look Carole in the eyes, resting both his hands on her shoulders. "Carole," he says, very seriously. "You are the greatest."

She laughs a little, reaches up and pats his cheek. "Oh, honey," she says again, and he thinks he likes that, the way she's always calling him _honey_. "You are so stoned right now."

"No, but it's true," he protests, as she spins him back around (and okay, _wow_ , he cannot spin that fast without having to close his eyes for a few seconds), wraps his arm back around her shoulders, and starts half-carrying him to the bathroom again. "You are, like, the greatest mom, and I'm just so..." He has to bite his lip for a second to keep from making kind of an embarrassing noise. "Kurt needs a good mom," he whispers. "A mom like you."

The arm around his waist tightens into something almost like a hug, and he wonders if it would be too forward of him to rest his head on her shoulder. Because she's a mom, but she's not his mom, so he thinks it's a little much, even if they are kind of cuddle-walking right now. "And you," Carole says, "are an absolute sweetheart. No wonder Kurt's so smitten with you."

Blaine smiles a little at that; he likes that word, _smitten_. It's a good word. But then it kind of makes him sad, too, because Karofsky pointed that gun at Kurt, and that wouldn't have had to happen, it wouldn't have happened at all if Kurt hadn't been... "But I don't want to hurt him," he says, plaintively. "I don't want him to get hurt."

"I know," Carole says, quietly. She helps him the last little bit of the way to the bathroom, and then very carefully props him up against the doorway, so he's facing her. "But what you have to understand, kiddo, is that it's not always up to you." Blaine ducks his head to the side, and Carole catches him, her hand cupping his cheek, pulling him back around to face her. "Kurt has a say in this too, you know," she tells him, and her eyes are a little sparkly like she's about to start crying. "And if he wants to stick with you... Honey, if he wants to stick with you, then I think you should let him."

"But he doesn't know, Carole," Blaine whispers, holding onto the wall for support. "He doesn't know how bad it's been, and he doesn't know how... He doesn't know how bad it could get."

Carole presses her lips together and nods, swallowing hard. "Then I guess you should tell him," she says, and pats his cheek, and pulls back. "I'll just... I'll just get you those clothes, okay? That is, if you're... If you think you can make it the rest of the way on your own."

"It's okay," Blaine says, quickly, because he really likes Carole and she's very sweet and very... very like a mom, but he doesn't need her helping him pee; that's just weird. "I can... By myself. It's fine."

"Okay," she says, and turns to walk away, and somehow, that makes something twist up in Blaine's stomach, something that makes him feel sick and scared and very, very small.

"Carole?" he calls out, and she turns back immediately, looking at him like she's worried. "Could you... could you stay, for a bit? Until my dad wakes up, or... Or maybe not even that long, because I think he might be out for kind of a while, but just... just for a little while. If you could. If you could stay. But you don't have to. If you don't want to."

And then he stares at his foot, because that was really weird, and she probably thinks he's a weird person now, for saying something weird like that. 

But then her feet are coming toward his again, and her hand settles on his wrist, and when he looks up, he sees her smiling at him. And her eyes are still sparkly with tears, but there's something so nice in her smile that he almost doesn't feel guilty about making her cry. Almost. "Oh, honey," she says. "Of course I'll stay with you."

Then she hugs him, and she's a really, really good hugger, and he rests his head against her shoulder and it makes him feel a lot better about things.

"I'll think about what you said," he promises, because she's hugging him and because he's still scared that she's going to start crying and because she's a mom and he's pretty sure you have to take mom advice, when it's given to you. He's never had a mom, but he has a dad, and he takes his dad's advice, so he figures it's basically the same. "About Kurt, about letting him... About telling him, and letting him choose. I really will think about it; I promise."

"That's all I ask," she says, and then squeezes him tight, and then finally lets go, smoothing her coat down and smiling up at him. "All right," she adds, patting at his arm, her hand very gentle. "You go... do what you need to do. I'll get you those clothes. Okay?"

Blaine nods. "Okay," he says. Then he turns and, balancing on the walls, very carefully hops his way into the bathroom.

 

*

 

He emerges slowly from a tangle of dreams, shapes half-remembered and events distorted ( _a white rabbit disappearing into the jungle, a man with dark, sad eyes, his father's voice terrible in the nighttime, the sound of whispers, a hand pushing him forward_ ), comes back to himself in bits and pieces -- this is his face pressed against scratchy upholstery; these are his glasses, knocked askew in his sleep, digging uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose; this is the familiar ache in the small of his back, the pressure in his bladder, the tingling numbness of a foot still asleep. He is not particularly confused -- he knows he's in the hospital, with Blaine; he doesn't really remember falling asleep but he can imagine how it must have happened, how the heaviness must have crept up on him after too many hours spent holding his son's hand, watching him drift in and out of lightly-drugged slumber. But there's something he can't quite put his finger on, something that isn't wrong exactly, just... unexpected.

Laughter. It's laughter.

"But it's boring," a woman's voice protests -- a gentle voice, warm with laughter, and more than a little familiar. "Blaine, honey, you're supposed to be taking my side here. It's my big day. Don't I deserve a little sparkle?"

"You do sparkle," Blaine insists; his voice still has a little of that drugged dreaminess to it, but it's much clearer than it was after breakfast, after yet another round of painkillers. "If you had, like, a lot of sequins and rhinestones and stuff, it'd just be... it'd be like, adding sparkle to the sparkle, or... Or..."

"Gilding the lily," Ben sighs, straightening himself in the chair, taking off his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. When he puts them back on, he sees his son staring at him, looking simultaneously relieved and confused. It's such a _Blaine_ expression that Ben is almost tempted to laugh, but he doesn't think Blaine would take it well, so he doesn't. "That's the phrase you're looking for, isn't it? Gilding the lily?"

Blaine blinks at him, his brow furrowed. "Maybe?" he murmurs. "Maybe." He's still in his bed, propped up on a stack of pillows, but it's obvious he's been up and around a little bit -- he's got his glasses on, and is wearing an oversized sweatshirt that proclaims him to be _Property of McKinley Titans Football_ , a pair of shiny polyester pants with snaps up the sides, white gym socks. 

Ben doesn't wonder where he got those things; the answer is sitting at the foot of Blaine's bed, regarding them both with a soft, warm smile. He's only met the woman once, but fortunately for him, the encounter was... memorable. "Hello, Carole," he says, quietly, attempting to smooth some of the wrinkles out of his shirt. 

She turns her warm smile on him; he wonders how long she's been here, taking care of Blaine for him. Long enough for the two of them to become friends, apparently, although that doesn't usually take long with Blaine. "Hello, Ben," she replies. 

"You know each other," Blaine says, sounding faintly disappointed. "I was going to introduce you."

"Sorry," Ben says, leaning forward to pat at Blaine's hand. Blaine immediately turns his hand palm-up on the bed, gripping Ben's hand tightly, like he's afraid Ben is going to pull away. As if he would. As if he could. "I'm afraid Kurt's father already did that for you, yesterday. After he proposed to Carole. In front of my first-period AP Calculus class."

Carole laughs again; it's a welcome sound to hear in such a place, Ben thinks. "Is that what we were interrupting?" Carole asks. "Sorry; I think Burt was under the impression that it was just homeroom. Not that it would have stopped him, once he had the idea in his head, but..."

"Oh, no harm done," Ben reassures her, still squeezing Blaine's hand. It occurs to him how strange this is, that this woman he met exactly once is sitting on his son's bed, bringing him clothes and keeping him company. It's not the sort of thing he expects people to do; he has no real idea how to handle it. "I... ah, I apologize, for not being awake when you came in. I'm afraid I --"

"It's all right," Carole says, but her smile fades a little bit. "I barely slept at night when Burt was in the hospital, and of course, Kurt didn't --" She clears her throat, obviously a little uncomfortable with the subject, and it's all so strange. Ben didn't know her, or Burt, or even Kurt when the heart attack happened, although it was quite recent. They were strangers then. In many ways, they still are now.

And yet, here they are.

There's a short, uncomfortable silence, and then Blaine breaks it. "We were just talking about Carole's wedding dress," he says, reaching out with his free hand to grab at a magazine left open on his lap. Ben shifts forward in his chair, bending obediently over the pages, even though he really has no idea what he's looking at. "Kurt likes this one. And so do I."

"Well," Ben says, pretending to study the picture, although it's honestly not the sort of thing he particularly cares about. It's a dress. It's white. It looks expensive. There's not much else to be said, really. "Of course, it's up to Carole what dress she wears; it _is_ her wedding."

Carole lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Thank you," she says, throwing up her hands. "Thank you, Ben."

Ben glances up at his son; Blaine is frowning at him, lower lip sticking out a little bit. "But if it were up to me, I would defer to your judgement. And Kurt's," he adds, and Blaine beams. Ben turns back to Carole, shrugging. "Sorry."

"Well," Carole huffs, but she's still smiling, and while Ben isn't entirely sure what to make of her presence here, he thinks he might actually welcome it. Not that it matters much, because she slides off the bed and stands up, smoothing down her skirt. "Since I'm obviously no good at choosing wedding dresses, I might as well do something useful, like getting coffee." Blaine perks up a little at that, and Carole shakes her head, fondly. "Don't worry," she adds, smiling at him. "I know what to get you. Kurt already told me. Ben, how about you? Burt said you're a tea man, but if you're still a little sleepy, I could --"

"It's fine," Ben says, ignoring Blaine's disappointed look. "There's a machine in the waiting room; if I need something, I can just --"

"I'm sure you can," Carole says, folding her arms; there's something in her expression that Ben can't quite place, something familiar. "You've been doing this on your own for a long time; believe me, I know what that's like. I know you can do this on your own, Ben. But you don't have to."

Ben wonders who that speech was meant for; he's not entirely sure it was meant for him. Admittedly, though, it does apply. "Really, Carole, you don't --"

"He takes his coffee black," Blaine offers, and squeezes Ben's hand as if in apology. "Also, he didn't eat breakfast, so if you could get like a muffin or something. Or a banana. Bananas are very healthy."

The smile returns to Carole's face; she nods at Blaine, although he's already staring at his lap, looking vaguely guilty. Then she turns back to Ben. "If I'm letting him pick my wedding gown," she says, "you can let him pick your breakfast."

Ben sighs, and shakes his head, and straightens his glasses. "Well," he says. "I suppose now we both know what it's like to be outvoted."

"I could call Kurt," Carole suggests, her expression turning a little sly. "If you wanted to make it official."

"That won't be necessary, thank you." Because Ben already knows perfectly what Kurt would say, what he would do. He's not very different from Blaine in these things. "Carole," he adds, watching her walk to the door, scooping up her purse as she goes. "Thank you."

She smiles at him one last time, before slipping out of the room.

Ben lets go of Blaine's hand -- he stands, stretches, tries to ease some of the ache in his back. He'll be stiff for days after this, of course; it'll make life that much more interesting. His back, Blaine's leg... They can't even get home from the hospital on their own -- his car and Blaine's are both still at McKinley; he had to make arrangements with Burt Hummel to have them towed back to the house. Kurt is coming to the hospital after school to take them home. Such small, simple things, but Ben's not sure he'd be able to manage them without the Hummels coming to his rescue. If he and Blaine do have to leave, if they flee Ohio and find someplace else to hide... The Hummels won't be there, then, to help them. 

But they'll manage, of course. They've done it before. They can do it again. If they have to.

"Dad?" Blaine asks; when Ben turns around, he sees his son has scooted closer to the edge of the bed, has his hand outstretched. Ben reaches out to take it, his fingers closing around Blaine's. "Dad, I want to... I think we should... I know we don't usually -- or we _never_ , but I..."

He falls silent and just looks at his father, like he's expecting Ben to understand him without words. Which he does. Of course he does. 

"We will," Ben says, and squeezes Blaine's hand. "We'll tell them."

"And if they still want... If they still want to help us..."

Ben perches on the edge of the mattress, with just barely enough room to balance; it isn't comfortable, and he doubts he can hold the position for very long, but it's what Blaine needs right now, and he's not in the habit of denying his son anything. He leans in, kisses Blaine on the forehead. "Then I think we should let them," he says. "But it's up to you, Blaine."

Blaine looks up at him, all wide dark eyes and tousled curls, and sometimes it hits Ben like a knife to the chest, how much he loves his son, how lucky he is -- "Dad?" Blaine's voice is tentative, terrified, a child's whisper to the darkness, and it sparks something familiar in Ben's memory ( _footsteps in his bedroom, a man with sad dark eyes, his father's voice terrible_ ), something that fades as Blaine shifts back, giving him more room to sit.

"I'm right here," Ben says, settling himself more fully on the mattress. "I'm right here, Blaine."

Blaine rests his chin on Ben's shoulder, and closes his eyes.

Ben squeezes his son's hand.

 

*

 

It's not that she doesn't feel guilty for eavesdropping, because she does, at least a little. She should have let Ben and Blaine have their private moment, _privately_ ; she shouldn't have hung around hoping to hear some kind of reason for what happened yesterday, something to explain why Burt's so worried about this, about them. Because it doesn't really matter if she's worried about her own family, if Burt's cryptic little hints and sudden urge to postpone the wedding -- which was, after all, his idea in the first place -- are driving her half out of her mind. It's still not a good reason to listen in on someone else's conversation.

So if she finds herself nothing but frustrated and confused, feeling like she understands the situation even less than she did before she came to the hospital; well, that's what she gets for being nosy. She's only got herself to blame, in the end.

Carole sighs, straightens her bag on her shoulder, and starts heading for the elevator. 

It's not difficult for her to understand why Burt's so dead-set on helping the Andersons out of whatever trouble they're in. Burt's that kind of man; Carole wouldn't even think about marrying someone who wasn't, not anymore. It's everything she loves about him -- his big heart, his capacity for empathy, his stubborn insistence on doing the right thing no matter what. His devotion to family, even, because while Burt wasn't exactly forthcoming last night, he did say that Ben Anderson had been a friend of his wife's, back when they were kids. So of course, Burt's going to want to do right by her memory. Carole understands all of that, honestly. She does. 

But what she can't understand is how someone like Ben Anderson got himself in any kind of trouble in the first place. He's so... so incredibly ordinary, just an average little man with an average little life. It's hard enough imagining him having the guts to get Karofsky kicked off the football team; she can't picture him doing anything riskier than that. 

But there must be something, something to justify Burt's twitchiness, the fear in Blaine Anderson's eyes when he said he didn't want Kurt getting hurt because of him, the way Ben said _We'll tell them_ like doing so was tantamount to confessing some kind of deep, dark secret. The man's a math teacher, for pity's sake. What on earth could he have to tell?

And what if it _is_ serious? What if it's something that could lead to Finn getting hurt, or killed? What does she do then? She doesn't want to leave Burt; he's a good man, and Kurt's a good boy, and she loves them, both of them. But she loves Finn more. Is she really going to risk him, for some strangers?

She stabs the button for the elevator with a little too much force and is almost immediately embarrassed about it, about her own behavior in general, really. Obviously, Ben's planning on explaining the situation; didn't she just hear him admit as much? And no, she's not entirely certain that she'll be included in that conversation, or at least she's not certain yet. She can make it certain; she will make it certain. She's a very convincing woman when she needs to be. If she can just wait a little longer; if she can just be patient... And, if nothing else, living with Finn has taught her patience. She doesn't need to do things like this, eavesdropping and spying. She'll wait, until Ben and Blaine are ready. Until they want to talk.

The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and a large man with a neat little beard and a fistful of balloons steps out. Carole slips past him, taking his place, still silently vowing not to push for any more answers. She'll get Ben and Blaine their coffee, make sure Ben's eaten something -- honestly, the man's acting the same way Kurt did when Burt was in the hospital, and she's not sure what that says about him or about her soon-to-be stepson -- and then she'll just --

"-- looking for Ben Anderson?" someone says, from the direction of the nurse's station, and Carole knows without having to think about it that it's the large man with the balloon bouquet.

And she knows, although she's not entirely sure why, that this is not a good thing.

She hits the _hold_ button just before the elevator doors can close, and slips quietly back out into the hallway, making her way slowly and stealthily to Blaine's room. Because this isn't eavesdropping; this is something else entirely.

She's not sure what it is, but she knows it's something else. 

 

*

 

The thing is, he's pretty sure he's pushing his luck with this. Assuming he has any luck left to push, which he's starting to doubt. But at the same time, it's not like he can afford to wait. Every second Ben Linus goes without hearing his side of the story -- the side of the story he's willing to tell, anyway -- is another second for doubts to creep in. For him to start wondering about who he can trust, and what's going on. Leslie can't afford to let him wait, not right now.

Anyway, he figures that as long as they're at the hospital, he's at least mostly safe from Linus's wrath. Even if the guy _is_ the killer Juliet's made him out to be, he's not going to try anything in public. In front of his son, no less. The man's too smart for that.

He thinks. He hopes. 

He knocks on the door that the nurse pointed out, tightens his grip on the balloons in his hand (balloons -- Christ, what was he thinking? Linus's son isn't five), and waits. 

"Carole?" Linus calls, from inside the room. "Did you forget something?"

_Carole?_ Jesus, is the guy running a harem in his spare time?

Leslie hesitates for a second longer; a second too long, because then Linus is pulling the door open, and the way his face changes when he sees Leslie is something that Leslie will never, ever forget. He doesn't look scared when he sees who it is; he looks furious, every part of his body tensing up so fast that he shakes with it, his hands clenching at his sides, his eyes widening and then narrowing again, jaw set. And _this_ is what Juliet was talking about; Leslie sees it now. 

Linus lets out a long, slow breath; it doesn't seem to relax him any. "Well," he says, his voice very soft and very, very dangerous. "If nothing else, I'll give you credit for having a lot of nerve." He tips his head to the side, seemingly thinking it over. "Or you just don't know who you're dealing with; I suppose I can't quite rule that out just yet."

"Dad?" his son calls out -- he's hidden somewhere inside the room, but Leslie can hear his voice quavering, and his traitorous memory suddenly supplies him with the image of a nature program he watched a long time ago, back when David was just a boy and the two of them used to watch tv together. It was something about bears, and how they don't attack humans, not unless their cubs are threatened. And he realizes that he's done something very, very stupid.

"Mr. Linus," he says, trying to get his shaky voice and shakier hands under control. "Listen. I just wanted to say how sorry I am that I -- I mean, that my son -- and I --"

Linus's eyes narrow even further. "I'm sorry," he says, not raising his voice a single bit. "What did you just call me?"

_Crap_. "I -- Sorry, sorry, I guess I just --"

"Dad!" Ben's son calls again, more urgent now.

"It's all right, Blaine," Ben replies, turning away for just a second to look back at his kid, and the moment his eyes are off Leslie, Leslie turns to bolt. 

He makes it maybe two steps before colliding with some soft, fleshy, middle-aged broad, knocking her backwards, and for some stupid reason he reaches out to catch her, muttering "Sorry, sorry," under his breath as he hoists her back up to her feet. "Sorry, I just --"

"Carole!" Ben's voice is louder now, the anger no longer muted, but sharp, edged with more than a little fear. There is one last moment where Leslie thinks _I can use this_ , when his hands tighten on the woman's arms and her eyes widen and he thinks about hostages, thinks about -- But then Ben grabs him, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and Leslie realizes he doesn't have the nerve after all. Not enough for this.

He lets go of the woman; she steps back from him immediately, eyes still wide, both hands clinging tight to the straps of her purse. Her eyes flick from him to Ben, uncertain.

"Carole," Ben says again, his voice softer now. "Why don't you go sit with Blaine for a moment, while I show Dr. Arzt to his car."

Leslie thinks, for just a second, about protesting that that is not his name, that he's Paul Karofsky, that he -- But Ben's fingers dig into his arm even harder, and for once in his life, he keeps his stupid mouth shut.

"Sure," the woman says, a little breathy, carefully sidestepping around Leslie and behind Ben. "Sure, of course. Did you need me to..."

"It's fine," Ben tells her, and this time he doesn't take his eyes off Leslie, not even once. "And don't worry about the coffee. I'll get it on my way back up."

"Sure," the woman says again, and slips through the open door of the hospital room, closing it behind her. As soon as it clicks shut, Ben starts pushing Leslie forward, and there's a surprising amount of strength in him for such a small man. 

"For the record," Ben hisses, hurrying Leslie back towards the elevators, his grip on Leslie's arm so damn tight that it's about to cut off circulation, "letting go of Carole Hudson when you did is probably the only intelligent thing you've done all day. You have no idea how much trouble you would be in if you'd so much as harmed one hair on her head. And do you know the best part? I wouldn't have even had to lift a finger." He stabs the down arrow for the elevators with one finger. "It's a shame, really; it's not often that I have these kinds of opportunities just fall into my lap. But I owe her and her family too much to put them through that. So I suppose I'll just have to take care of you myself."

The elevator doors slide open, and Ben shoves Leslie in, following after. There is an extremely awkward, tense silence until the doors slide shut again, and the elevator starts dropping down.

"You're gonna kill me," Leslie says, his eyes still on Ben Linus. It's stupid, maybe, but he wants it said out loud. He wants to acknowledge just what exactly is going on here. "Am I right? After everything that's happened, everything I had to go through, you're gonna kill me."

Linus's lips quirk upwards in what might almost be a smile; it's not a very nice one. "It's a tempting thought," he admits, his voice so bland and pleasant that it actually sends a chill down Leslie's spine. "Very, very tempting. But no, Dr. Arzt. I'm not going to kill you. If only because I don't want to risk getting caught and going to jail, particularly not now, when my son needs me." He eyes Leslie, his expression downright contemptuous. "Not that I'd expect you to understand that," he adds.

Leslie straightens his jacket, tries to at least _look_ offended. "I came back for David," he spits out, glaring at the floor.

"No," Ben says, still in those bland, pleasant tones, and Leslie can't help but feel like an idiot, because that's how Linus has been talking to him all along. The mild voice of a mild-mannered guy. And Leslie never suspected a thing, even when he damn well knew better. "You didn't. You wanted off the Island. Of course you did, after everything you had to go through." He says it mockingly, and Leslie bristles, but he's not quite angry enough to argue. Not when he's pretty sure Linus could just kill him right in this elevator if he really wanted to.

"David was your ticket to freedom, and you used him as such," Linus continues, still so pleasant-sounding, so _reasonable_. "And then you used him to get to me. And if I think for one second that you're going to try to use him again, as some kind of bargaining chip? I _will_ reconsider my decision not to kill you."

The elevator shudders to a halt, and Ben's hand settles back on Leslie's elbow, a little looser now, but still a threat.

"Oh, and by the way?" Another chill goes down Leslie's spine at the soft friendliness of Ben's voice. "And only because I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I'm not going to kill you. But you are going to die."

The doors slide open, and Ben drags Leslie out before his numb, terrified brain can spit some kind of rational response at him. 

 

*

 

He can't say he's exactly surprised, when the call comes. A little disappointed, maybe, a little apprehensive. Or a lot apprehensive; he'd been thinking about it all day, trying to minimize it in his head, make it so he was overreacting, thinking things were worse than they really were, that he was making a big deal out of nothing. But then he hears Ben's voice, a little strained, a little agitated, and he realizes that it's still every bit as serious as he thought it was last night.

Still, that doesn't stop him from saying, "You know we don't have to do this now, right? I mean, you've had a long couple days, and I'm sure Blaine's pretty worn out, and you've gotta be --"

"Burt," Ben says, quietly. "I do appreciate your patience. But, believe me, if you'd been at the hospital just now --" He sighs. "It has to be tonight. It can't wait."

"All right, all right," Burt sighs, looking across the garage. Hell, it's not like they're that busy today anyway; he can leave the boys to finish up if he has to. And it looks like he has to, so. "I'll call Kurt, tell him not to bring Finn along when he comes to pick you guys up at the hospital; we can --"

"No." Ben's voice is sharp, clipped. "Have him bring Finn."

Burt raises his eyebrow, even though Ben's not exactly there to see him. "With all due respect, Ben, I'm not so sure that's such a good idea. Finn's kind of... Well, he's kind of a blabbermouth, and I don't know if he'll --"

"Let me worry about that," Ben replies, and his voice would almost be gentle if it weren't for that weird edge. Burt has to wonder what happened; whatever it was, it obviously shook Ben up pretty bad. "Just... It needs to be all of you. And it needs to be tonight."

"All right," Burt says, again, because he doesn't know what's happening, but he knows not to fight it. Not yet, anyway. "All right. We'll be there."

"Thank you," Ben says, his voice a little softer, maybe a little relieved. "Thank you, Burt." Then there's a click, and he's hung up. Gone before Burt could ask too many questions, or any questions at all, really.

Not that it really matters, not when he'll find out everything he wants to know in... Burt glances at the clock; it's just before noon. Three o'clock, he'll be at Ben's house, waiting. 

He'll get all the answers then, whether or not he wants them. Him and his whole family -- they'll get all the answers.

God help them.


	17. ...  And I'll Tell You No More Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years ago, Ben Linus killed several of his own people and left the Island on a stolen submarine, with a child that wasn't really his. This is why.

On the day he turned twelve years old, Ben Linus experienced his first and (so far) only birthday party. 

He doesn't remember all of it, not anymore -- there are gaps, in his memories of the Island: certain moments, hours, days, _weeks_ that will forever remain out of his ability to recall. But he remembers the party: he remembers knocking on Mr. Pace's door; he remembers Miss Shannon's smile as she let him in; he remembers Annie, coming towards him, holding out her hand. 

And he remembers, very distinctly remembers, walking into the living room and seeing the people waiting there. There probably weren't many of them, he thinks, but there was Mr. Pace at the piano, and Miss Katie in the rocking chair with Vincent at her feet (Vincent's tail was wagging, his eyes bright and alert and fixed on Ben), and a few of Ben's classmates -- the ones who would talk to him, the ones who didn't seem to mind that he didn't usually say anything in reply, the ones who smiled at him when they saw him outside of school and invited him to come and play with them and never got angry when he said his father wouldn't let him. He remembers seeing all of those people, and squeezing Annie's hand as tight as he could, and feeling absolutely terrified. Because those people were there for him, and he wasn't sure why, but somehow, it was the scariest thing he could imagine.

Of course, that was more than thirty years ago. He has seen so much since then, so many things, and many of those things have been horrifying in ways he couldn't imagine as a child. Yesterday, in particular, will no doubt haunt him for many years to come -- his son, bleeding on the tiled floor of that classroom, clutching his wounded leg, his face contorted, his breath coming short and fast and pained -- 

And yet. 

He stands, now, in the center of his own living room and looks around, at Carole enthroned in his easy chair and Burt hovering protectively behind her, his arms folded along the back of the chair, his face grim, his baseball cap for once left behind on the coat rack. The boys are lined up on the sofa -- Finn (a curiously fitting name for a young giant) is hunched in on himself, his shoulders slumped and his head ducked, meek and unthreatening. Kurt is all fretful hands and nervous glances; he fusses with the collar of his shirt and the cuffs of his cardigan, sneaking quick peeks at his father and at Ben but always, always returning to Blaine, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

And then, of course, there's Blaine himself, tucked in between Kurt and Finn on the sofa, still dressed in Finn's enormous sweatshirt, his too-long warmup pants and too-big socks, his hair still curly and wild, his wide eyes still hidden behind thick black-framed glasses. His fingers are knitted together, almost as though he's holding his own hand in the absence of anyone else to cling to, and he watches Ben the way he always has, with that strange combination of fear and trust -- fear, because he knows that they're in danger; trust, because he has faith in Ben's ability to rescue them.

Five people, that's all. Most mornings, Ben wakes up, goes to McKinley, and spends his days in front of an ever-changing array of students, twenty or more in every class, and he never so much as bats an eye. And now here he is, in front of five people, and he is once again terrified.

Strange, how little things change.

"I..." he begins, then stops, catches his breath. He's nervous, of course, but it's more than that. This is the first (and will be, hopefully, the last) time he has ever told this story. He would very much like to get it right. 

"First, I wanted to thank you, all of you. For what you've done for Blaine and myself, for the kindness you've shown us, these past few weeks, and particularly for... for yesterday, and then today as well." He looks over at Burt and Carole, sees them exchange glances; he wonders what that means, but knows it's not his place to ask. "It's not the first time that Blaine and I have found ourselves in a dangerous situation, but it is one of the very, very few times that anyone has come to our assistance, even a little. Which is why it pains me so much to think that by helping us, you have put yourselves in danger."

Finn jolts a little at that -- he chews his lip and looks for a moment like he's about to raise his hand, to ask permission to speak, but then Burt clears his throat, and Finn glances at him, and ducks his head again, and subsides.

"As I said," Ben continues, once he's certain Finn has decided against whatever question he was planning to ask, "this is not the first time Blaine and I have found ourselves in this... In this kind of situation. And we have gotten very good at extracting ourselves, over the years. But. I believe that things are different, this time. No, I... I know that they're different. Because without meaning to, without thinking, we dragged the four of you, your family, into this as well." He looks at Kurt; Kurt swallows hard and reaches out, blindly, for Blaine's hand. He seems surprised when Blaine's fingers close around his; he turns his head to look at Blaine, but Blaine's eyes are still fixed on his father, halting and stammering his way through this most important of explanations. "And while Blaine and I would simply pack up and leave tomorrow if we thought that the danger we're in would follow us, and leave you alone..." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't be sure that it will. It might very well be too late for that. 

"And if that's the case, then... There are, of course, other options to consider. And believe me, we will get to those. But first, you need to know what kind of danger you're in. And so I need to explain a few things. About myself."

He looks back at Kurt, sitting rigid on the sofa, his eyes on Ben, his hand still wrapped tightly in Blaine's. "I understand that, when David Karofsky was holding you hostage yesterday, he mentioned the Island," he says. "Is that right?"

Kurt nods, all wide blue eyes, so fragile. Not for the first time, Ben wishes there were another way of doing this. Some way of sparing Kurt, of sparing all of them. But there isn't, of course. They need to know.

"And did you have any idea what he meant by that?" Ben asks, pitching his voice a little softer now; Kurt looks so frightened. 

"My mom," Kurt says, his voice a little strangled, and Finn's head jerks up again, startled. Blaine's eyes widen. "She used to tell me stories, about when she grew up. On the Island." There's a moment's pause, before Kurt adds, "With you."

_"You're new," she says, and he nods, embarrassed by that, by how new he is, by the flowers around his neck and his glasses and the way his hair falls into his eyes and the way he doesn't fit here, never fits anywhere. But she just smiles at him, like she's not bothered by that, by the fact that he's_ new _._

_"I'm Annie."_

"That's right," Ben tells him, still trying to be gentle, trying to ease his way into the story as best he possibly can. "Tell me, Kurt, did she ever mention the Hostiles?"

Kurt nods again, biting his lip; his hand remains locked with Blaine's, resting between them on the couch cushions. His eyes are wide and so are Blaine's; they look like frightened children. Because that's what they are -- older than Ben was, when it happened, but still. Just children. Next to them, Finn has lifted his head; he's watching Ben with a perplexed look on his face. Carole, too, looks confused. 

Burt looks simply resigned, and Ben wonders, not for the first time, how long he's been waiting for something like this to happen. He wonders when Burt realized that Annie's past had finally caught up with them. 

He's not sure he'll ever ask.

He clears his throat, and goes back to his story. "When I was a child," he says, looking first at Finn, then at Carole. Because he knows, now, that the Hummels have at least a passing acquaintance with the Island and its inhabitants. But Finn and Carole are starting from scratch with this. He can't afford to skip too many of the details.

"When I was a child, my father went to work for an organization called the DHARMA Initiative, doing scientific research on an island in the South Pacific. He was raising me by himself -- my mother had died shortly after I was born -- and so I went with him. This wasn't particularly unusual; many of the DHARMA Initiative staff had brought their children to the Island. Kurt's mother, Annie, had been brought to the Island by her parents as well. I met her on the day that I arrived, and she..." He smiles. "I suppose you could say that she took me under her wing. She protected me. In many ways.

"When my father and I arrived on the Island, we came to a place called the Barracks; this is where most of the DHARMA staff lived. We had our own little house there; there was a post office, a few shops, a school... And all around the Barracks was an enormous fence. We were told that the fence was there to keep the Island's wildlife at bay, which, to the best of my knowledge, it did. But what it could _not_ keep out was the Island's native inhabitants.

"We referred to them as the Hostiles. For obvious reasons."

_The alarm blaring, loud and rhythmic, two blasts and then a pause, two blasts and a pause, and people are running outside and something sounds like fireworks and in the corner of the classroom, someone is crying -- he thinks it's Jamie; Jamie kind of cries a lot -- and Ben stays at his desk because he doesn't know what to do or where to go, he doesn't know how to go to his position because he doesn't_ have _a position because he's never had to do this before -- at his old school, they had bomb drills and he had to go under his desk for that but no one's under their desks now and he doesn't_ know _\-- and then Annie grabs his hand, and says "C'mon," and that's all it takes to get him moving --_

"The Hostiles had been occupying the Island for a very long time, long before the DHARMA Initiative selected it as a site for their research. They considered it a sacred duty to protect the Island from all who would exploit its... Its unique facets. And while they hadn't yet managed to drive off the DHARMA Initiative, it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. According to Annie, the Hostiles had been attacking the Barracks since before she ever came to the Island. And the attacks continued for several months after I arrived, until finally the two sides worked out a sort of truce, and the... The _open_ hostilities ceased. But there was still a good deal of tension, on both sides, and I think we all knew that it was only a matter of time before the treaty was somehow nullified. It was never going to be a permanent peace.

"For me, as a child, this was... unsettling." He glances around the room, takes in their expressions. Honestly, he has no idea what they're going to make of any of this, whether or not they'll believe him, what it will mean for the five of them if they do. But it's enough, at the moment, that they're paying attention. "But for my father, it presented a unique opportunity. 

"Now, the DHARMA Initiative was, as I've said, engaged in scientific research on the Island. But not everyone on the Island was a scientist. Most of the people on the Island were there as support staff: cooks, mechanics, teachers... and janitors." Carole lets out a little huff at the last, and Ben manages a sort of rueful smile, an acknowledgement. "My father was hired on as one of the latter sort. He never made a secret of the fact that he found it deeply insulting to his skills and talents. In his mind, he deserved more. The Island _owed_ him more. And when the DHARMA Initiative refused to give him the respect he felt he deserved... He decided to look for it elsewhere." 

_He wakes up to the sound of voices, words inaudible -- his father's voice and someone... someone else, someone he doesn't recognize. Curious, he pads to the open door of his bedroom and then further, out into the hallway, the living room. His father is standing at the window, staring out. There is someone on the other side, a woman in a blue dress, her hair pulled back by a headband. She looks away from his father, looks right at Ben, and something in the way she looks at him makes him stumble backwards against the wall with a loud thump. His father turns, sees him there, and the anger in his eyes makes the tiny spark of fear in Ben's stomach blossom into full-blown panic._

"Of course, I knew nothing at the time. But from what I was told later, the Hostiles were... They were intrigued by my father's offer, but also skeptical. As much as they wanted to have a spy amongst the DHARMA Initiative, they were also very aware that DHARMA would love to have a spy among their people. So they told my father that he would need to give them something that they could hold as collateral, something they could use as... As a hostage. Something he valued too much to risk losing."

He swallows hard, his mouth dry and his hands sweating; he looks at Blaine, hoping that his eyes and his face and his posture and every inch of him can somehow convey the promise he has made a thousand times since the first time he held Blaine in his arms, so small, so new (the way he was once new), and innocent, and fragile, and trusting. _I will never do that to you; I will never give you up; I will never --_

"Frankly, I think they drastically overestimated my place in my father's affections, although I suppose it doesn't matter much." He forces a smile, trying to forestall any pity. "I was the sacrifice that the Island demanded, and my father gave it gladly."

_Footsteps coming down the hall towards his bedroom, heavy, making the floorboards creak._

_The door opens._

_Someone turns the light on; it floods the room, almost blinding, and Ben squints into the brightness, his fingers tight in the blankets covering him, terrified._

_There's a thump as something lands on the bed -- a shirt, trousers, clean socks._

_His father's voice tells him to get dressed._

_The door snaps shut again._

"Wait," Finn says, looking up at him, still with that perplexed look on his face. "So these... These hostile guys. They were, like, attacking the Dharma people and stuff? With... you know, guns? And things?" 

Ben nods, eyes still on Finn's face, waiting for him to get to his real question.

"And your dad... Your dad just walked up to them one day and... handed you over to them?"

"It was at night," Ben says, correcting him. "But... essentially, yes." Finn gapes at him; when Ben glances at Burt and Carole, he sees the two of them looking faintly ill. "I... I don't remember much about what actually happened," he explains. "When I realized that my father was taking me away from the Barracks, into the jungle, where the Hostiles lived... I panicked. Tried to run."

_His father releases the white rabbit -- it hops between the pylons and out into the jungle, seemingly unharmed._

_"See? Don't worry, kiddo. I told you. I'll take care of you."_

_He looks at his father, standing there with his hand outstretched. He looks at the jungle ahead of them, dark and mysterious and terrifying._

_He turns to run._

"Obviously, my father wasn't inclined to let me go."

_He is grabbed by hard hands, wiry arms wrapping around him so tightly he can barely breathe, lifting him off his feet. He kicks, cries out, his scream a high, thin sound, like the scream of a frightened rabbit. A hand comes up and covers his mouth, his nose, and then he can't breathe at all and he kicks harder, desperate now. His foot connects with something -- he's not sure what, but it doesn't matter -- he's dropped, suddenly free, and as soon as he can get a deep breath in his lungs, he clambers to his feet and starts running. Doesn't look around, doesn't check to see what direction he's headed, just runs._

_It's not until he hears his father's laughter, mocking him, that he realizes he's running the wrong direction -- not toward the Barracks and safety, but straight into the jungle. And when he turns around, the jungle is all he sees, on all sides of him. He doesn't know which way to run; he doesn't know how to get home. For a few seconds he just stands there, frozen._

_Then someone steps on a twig, a little behind him, to his left. It snaps, sharp like a gunshot. And all around him, he hears whispering, so many voices, whispering._

_And then he's running again, not even trying to get home anymore, just trying to get away._

He clears his throat, uncomfortably aware that this story is perhaps becoming more emotional than he would prefer it to be. He has resigned himself, somewhat, to the idea of giving the Hudsons and Hummels all the facts about him, to letting them see at least some of his history. But they don't need to know how much it still _hurts_.

He takes a deep breath, steadies himself (doesn't look at Blaine, _can't_ look at Blaine, not right now), and continues. 

"At some point, I suppose I must have hit my head."

_It hurts... It hurts, and he's dizzy, and he's spinning, and then there's hands on him, gentle, and he thinks he needs to get away but he can't remember just why, and then someone's bending over him, a man with sad dark eyes._

_"Are you all right?" the man asks._

_Ben tries to get away, but he can't; the man is strong and he's weak, worn out from running and so dizzy, and... "You're one of them," he manages to say, his breath still coming short and fast from fear and from exertion. "You're a Hostile."_

_The man smiles at him, briefly, then starts examining his head, feeling it with his fingers as though searching for something, like a lump. "Do I seem hostile to you?" he asks._

_Ben watches him, wide-eyed, and doesn't answer, because he doesn't know. He doesn't know the answer._

_The man shakes his head, settles back on his haunches, and just looks at Ben for a few seconds. "What's your name?" he asks._

_Almost as soon as Ben opens his mouth to answer, he closes it again, struck dumb by the sound of his father's voice, terrible in the night. "Ben!" his father calls. "Ben, goddammit, where are you?"_

_The man looks at Ben again, takes a deep breath. "Stay behind me," he says, softly. Then he pushes himself up to his feet, standing in front of Ben, almost like a shield._

_It's not the first time anyone's ever done that for Ben. It will, however, be the last._

"I don't..." He shakes his head. "I don't remember much after that."

_"Get away from my son."_

_The man holds his hands out, placating. "Listen to me," he says, that soft voice with its strange, unfamiliar accent. "You don't want to do this. You're making a --"_

_"I said, get away from my son!"_

_There's a sort of a clicking sound, one that Ben is familiar with by now -- he's spent too much of his life around guns; he knows what it sounds like when someone thumbs back the hammer, getting ready to fire. He whimpers, curling up on his side, too hurt and tired and dizzy and breathless and scared to keep running._

_"Please," the man says. "You don't understand what this will do to you, what it will do to --"_

_"Three," Ben's father says; branches crack underfoot as he takes a step forward. Ben buries his face in his arms. "Two."_

_"You're making a --"_

_The gun is horribly, horribly loud in the otherwise oppressively quiet jungle, so loud that Ben's ears are still ringing when his father grips him again, pulls him to his feet, shouting at him, and Ben can't hear him, can't understand -- his ears are ringing so loudly that it blocks everything else out. He is pushed ahead, stumbling through the darkness, his head still spinning, his legs like jelly. He wants to look back, to look for the man with sad eyes, but he isn't allowed. His father keeps pushing him, pushing,_ pushing _, until he pushes too hard and Ben falls forward, unable to catch himself._

_It goes dark again._

_This time, it stays dark._

"When I woke up, I was in a tent. There was a man with me, watching me. He said his name was Richard. He... He told me that my father had brought me to them, so that they could look after me, keep me safe. He said that my father had gone back to the DHARMA Initiative for now, but that he would visit me, from time to time, when he could. He said that I shouldn't worry, that... That I was among good people, and that they'd take care of me."

_The man, Richard, watches him for a little while; there's something sorrowful in his expression. Then he sighs and stands up. "I'll..." He gives Ben a faint sliver of a smile. "I'll get you some water."_

_Ben watches him leave, watches the flap of the tent fall shut behind him. He thinks that, possibly, he might start crying now. There's no one there to see him; he could, if he wanted to. He could cry._

_Instead, he closes his eyes, and tries to ignore the way the room is spinning around him._

"And, to be fair," Ben says, finally looking at his son again -- Blaine gives him a small, encouraging smile -- "it wasn't entirely untrue. I _was_ taken care of, by Richard's people. They gave me food, shelter... my education was somewhat unorthodox, but obviously that hasn't hampered me much since I left the Island. Some of them were quite... were quite kind. I wouldn't say I was ever really happy with them, but I never really wanted for anything. I think I even trusted them, for the most part. And although I was aware that I would never really be allowed to leave them, it was... rare that I even considered doing so. They gave me the best home they could and asked little in return, and for twelve years, that was enough. 

"But then..." He sighs. "Then there was Blaine."

Blaine twists a little in his seat, uncomfortable now that the story is about him. Kurt reaches over and pats at their joined hands, encouragingly.

"Now, the DHARMA Initiative had sought out the Island," Ben explains, "but that sort of thing was relatively rare. Most who came to the Island came there by accident, through shipwreck or some other misadventure. So none of my people were particularly surprised or alarmed when we had word that a small ship had crashed just off the Island and the survivors had found their way to shore. There were only six of them, after all, and we were... preoccupied with the conflict against the DHARMA Initiative, which was nearly at its end. Whoever they were, they seemed to pose no danger to us.

"Then we found the first set of bodies." 

_He is not a particularly squeamish person, not anymore. Twelve years spent with the Hostiles has toughened him; he is no longer hesitant around guns, or wary of blood, or unwilling to get his hands a little dirty if that's what needs to happen. But the sight of a severed arm there on the jungle floor -- just the arm, no sign of the rest of the body -- that gives him a moment's pause._

"Not long after, we found three more bodies on the beach. They had all been shot, close range, with a rifle. At first, we thought perhaps the DHARMA security team had become somewhat overzealous, but it didn't take us long to realize that DHARMA had nothing to do with it. Nor were my people involved. One of the members of the research expedition had turned against her companions, killed them. All of them. She was dangerous. She needed to be stopped.

"Originally, I was supposed to be one of the people sent to find the French woman and... well. And kill her." Carole jolts, a little startled; Ben feels briefly guilty that he's even mentioned it, but he supposes there's no choice. If they're to make any kind of decision about this, they need to know what the Island is, how many people have died for it. What _he_ is, and what he's done. "But there was a change of plans."

_"No," he says, quietly, and watches Charles's face change from complacency to shock to something else entirely, something dangerous._

_"No?" Charles repeats, his voice deadly calm._

_"Not Ethan." Charles turns away and Ben follows after him, chasing him to the other side of the tent. "He's a_ child _, Charles. This is too much for him. I'll take someone else; Tom, maybe. Or Beatrice, or... or my father, but not --"_

_"Your father," Charles says, turning back, one eyebrow raised. "Your father would take Ethan, if I asked him to."_

_Ben's father has something of a talent for endangering children; Ben doesn't dare point that out. It might seem... ungrateful, and he's well aware that he's not in a position to air such thoughts, not now. He still has Richard's favor, but that will only take him so far. Charles is their leader; he is the one who carries out Jacob's will. It's not safe for Ben to question either of them._

_"Actually," Charles says. "Perhaps that would be best. I'm sorry for wasting your time, Benjamin, but I'm afraid we won't need you for this assignment after all."_

_He turns and leaves the tent without another word, and Ben doesn't dare call him back again._

"Of course, what I didn't know at the time was that the French woman had recently given birth to a son," he explains. "And that when my people -- when my _father_ went to kill her, he wouldn't find her alone, but..." His gaze drifts back over to Blaine, watching him solemnly, his face so young and yet so old. "If I had known... It might have been different, if I had known. But I didn't.

"Instead, I found out at the same time everyone else did," he explains, glancing briefly back at Carole and Burt before his eyes return to his son, drawn there as if by a magnet. "When my father and Ethan returned to us, when their work was done. My father was carrying something in his arms, and I... I knew. Right away, I knew."

_The bundle lets out a soft cry, a little petulant sounding, and Ben is on his feet in an instant, reaching out before he's even rounded the campfire. He doesn't even know what he's doing, not really; he just knows that he_ needs _to, and that's all that matters. "Dad," he says, as his father passes the infant into his arms with an expression on his face that looks a lot like gratitude. "Dad, what did you do?"_

_"Is that --" Ben glances up from the infant in his arms, and sees Charles setting his bowl on the ground, brushing his hands off on his trousers. He looks... perplexed. "Is that a baby?"_

_"I told him," Ethan says, his hand tight on the strap of his rifle. "I told him we should kill it, but he didn't --"_

_The baby lets out another warbling cry, more fretful now, and Ben's attention is immediately drawn back to him (he thinks it's a him; it's hard to say for certain without checking, which is something he doesn't really have time for right now). He tucks the infant a little closer to his chest, careful to support the head -- he's so terribly small, probably only a few days old, and --_

_"He's weak," Ethan says, and the baby's cries grow louder, as if he understands. As if he knows. "He wasn't even going to kill the woman. I had to --"_

_"Shut up, Ethan," Ben snaps, as he rocks the baby a little in his arms, trying to soothe him but not really quite sure how to go about it. He's been around children before, a little bit, but it was long ago, when he was still with the DHARMA Initiative, and he doesn't remember --_

_"You never said," Ben's father protests, and the uncomfortable fact of the matter is that Ethan was right about him. Ben's father _is_ weak, his protests feeble. If he is the only protector this child has, then the child might as well be dead already. "You never said she had a child. What was I supposed to do?"_

_"Dad," Ben says, standing a little straighter, holding the child a little closer. "Don't. I'll handle this."_

"There was... There was some debate. As to what we should do. About Blaine," Ben says, trying to phrase it as delicately as he can. He's not naive enough to think that Blaine doesn't know what Charles wanted to do, what he _ordered_ Ben to do, but it seems... cruel, to remind him of it. It might be something he explains to Burt and Carole later, in private, but not in front of Blaine. Never in front of Blaine. "But I convinced our leader to let me care for him. To raise him as my own."

_His heart is hammering in his chest as he looks at Charles, the infant crying steadily in his arms the entire time. There's only one way out of this that he can find, and it's dangerous, so dangerous, but he can't see any other options. "Is this what Jacob wants?" he asks._

_Charles says nothing, only looks at him._

_Ben swallows hard, and then, palms sweating, breath a little ragged, raises the stakes. "Then here," he says, adjusting the infant in his arms, holding him out like an offering and every instinct in him is telling him to pull the child back, pull him close, keep him safe, but he keeps his eyes on Charles's and holds firm. "Here he is._ You _do it."_

_The seconds stretch out, interminable, the baby's cries verging on hysterical now, and everything that Ben is is screaming at him that this is wrong, that Charles will call his bluff, that he'll --_

_But he holds firm, and finally Charles turns his back, walking away, and it's over. It's over._

_Ben immediately draws the child in close, cradling him against his chest, and tries to soothe him, rocking him gently, murmuring "It's okay. It's okay. It's over. You're okay now," and silently promises himself that this will never, never happen again._

He ducks his head, takes a quick, deep breath, and then continues.

"Now, I mentioned previously that my people had made a truce with the DHARMA Initiative," he explains, letting his eyes sweep across the room again, taking in Kurt's attentive gaze, Finn's confusion, Carole's worry, and the absolutely unreadable expression on Burt Hummel's face. "One of the terms of that truce was that the DHARMA Initiative's time on the Island would be brief -- that, on the arranged date, they would pack up their research and leave. That date had passed nearly two years before Blaine was born, and yet the DHARMA Initiative remained as deeply entrenched as ever. And more, even -- they'd continued to build new research stations on the Island, in territory that they were strictly forbidden to enter. They'd flouted nearly every provision of the treaty, and were continuing to do so with seeming impunity. 

"And there was something else. 

"My father often traveled to the various DHARMA research stations, bringing them supplies, transporting the workers, things of that nature. He... saw things, heard things; no one ever thought twice about speaking freely in his presence. After all, he was only a janitor. To them, he may as well have been invisible. And so he gathered information, for our people. He learned about DHARMA's plans for the Island. And they were... They were alarming, to say the least.

"For years, apparently, the DHARMA Initiative had been synthesizing and stockpiling toxic gasses at a station they called the Tempest. According to my father, they had amassed more than enough to kill every man, woman, and child on the Island. And -- again, according to him -- they were on the verge of doing just that. They knew that our patience was nearing its end, that the only thing holding us back was the question of how best to strike at them. They meant to kill us before we could kill them. Our only hope was to take control of the Tempest and... Well. 

"Which is exactly what we did."

Burt studies him for a while, just studies him with that calm, inscrutable face. "You killed them," he repeats, quietly.

Ben just nods. "Yes."

"All of them."

"Yes."

Burt frowns, just a little bit. "Did you know Annie had left the Island? When you killed all those people?"

Ben licks his dry lips; he swallows hard. "I had been told that all of the other children living on the Island were evacuated not long after I was taken in by the Hostiles," he says. "Although I was never entirely certain if that was true."

_He takes Blaine to the Pit, after -- he supposes it's not the most appropriate place for a child, but then Blaine is only a baby; it's unlikely that he'll remember this. But just in case he does, Ben keeps him wrapped up, tucked securely against Ben's chest, unable to see anything more unsettling than Ben's shirt, the rise and fall of his breathing, perhaps the muscles of his throat working as he swallows, over and over again._

_Honestly, he's not really sure what he's expecting to see. Even if Annie had stayed, he doubts he would recognize her now. Miss Katie, Miss Shannon, Mr. Pace -- they are long gone. Of that, Ben is sure. But it feels... Important, somehow. To see. To witness._

_They were his people once, the DHARMA Initiative. Even now, so many years later, he half expects someone to come up behind him, to shove him into the Pit. To force him to join them, one last time._

_No one does, of course, and eventually he turns and walks away, still cradling Blaine to his chest._

"Can I ask," Carole says, a little hesitantly, leaning forward and looking up at him. "If you had tried... If you'd tried to stop them. What would have happened?"

Ben just shrugs. "Well. Of course, if I'd attempted to stop them by force, I probably would have been shot. But if I'd tried to persuade them..." He shrugs again. "All of my people were given gas masks, before we attempted to take the Tempest. However, not everyone managed to use theirs. It was said that they... panicked, or failed to recognize the signal, or simply forgot." He pauses, waits for her to understand. It doesn't take her long; not nearly as long as it should, really. 

"They would've killed you," Burt says.

"I feel I should remind you that this was barely six months after I first adopted Blaine as my own," Ben says, as mildly as possible. "I had defied our leader not once, but twice in the span of one day. That I'd lived to tell the tale was something of a minor miracle. Had I tried my luck a third time..." He shakes his head. "And then, too, I had Blaine to think about. He'd yet to be fully accepted by our people, and while I suppose my father might have taken him in if something had happened to me... Well. I didn't want to risk it. 

"And although I did wonder, briefly, what might happen if I tried to return to the DHARMA Initiative..." He shrugs. "It's not like they were any more inclined to be peaceful. The poison gas was their idea, their pet project, something they'd been working on for years. And assuming that I managed to escape my people without being recaptured, that I wasn't shot on sight upon re-entering the DHARMA Barracks, that I wasn't captured and interrogated for weeks on end... No matter what I did, it would have ended the same way. A pile of bodies in a pit. Just... different clothes. That's the only real difference, in the end.

He sighs, shaking his head. "What you need to understand, what _all_ of you need to understand, is that I lived with both of those groups, DHARMA and the Hostiles, for many years. And while I was told by both sides that theirs was the righteous cause, that they were serving a higher good, a higher morality... I never saw proof of it on either side. There's no such thing as good on that Island, no right, no wrong, and very little innocence." His eyes dart, once again, to Blaine -- his eyes are still so wide, his face is still so young, and for all that the two of them have gone through over these past years, he can't help but be glad, just for a moment. That Blaine is off the Island. That Blaine is somewhere better. "People want what they want, and they do what they have to to get it. And that's it. That's all there is."

Burt studies him for a long time, quietly. Finally, he asks, "And what did you want, Ben?"

Ben looks at him, and then he looks at his son. He doesn't know Burt Hummel all that well, but he feels relatively certain that that is all the answer the man will really need.

After a few moments, he continues. 

"I stood with our leader when he announced that it was time to initiate the Purge. I did what he asked of me, when he asked it of me. I didn't ask questions; I did as I was told. But I wasn't doing it because I thought it was the right thing to do; I wasn't doing it for the Island. And I believe he was aware of it even then.

"And that was a problem.

"When I was taken in by the Hostiles, when they became my people, I was told that we were special, that we were chosen. That we were destined to protect the Island. And that, as one of the chosen people, my first priority must always be the Island. Truthfully, I can't say that it ever really was; or if it was, it was simply for a lack of something else to care for. I had few close friends among the Hostiles, and those people I'd cared for during my years with the DHARMA Initiative were long since lost to me. The Island was all I really had, for a time. 

"But then I had Blaine. And it became apparent almost at once that I cared for him more than I cared for anyone, or anything. And while I would continue to defend the Island as long as I felt I could protect my son in doing so... If it had come down to it, if I had had to choose, I would have chosen Blaine. No matter what, I would have chosen Blaine. And although I didn't advertise it, our leader knew. A few others knew. My father certainly knew, and was very unhappy."

He takes a deep breath, swallows hard. "I wouldn't exactly say that what happened next was his idea, because I honestly don't know, but if it _was_... Well. I wouldn't be particularly surprised.

"As I've mentioned, the Dharma Initiative had several scientific research stations scattered around the Island," he explains, glancing around the room. His eyes settle on Burt and Carole. "They also had one or two off the Island. One of these was called the Hydra. My father claimed that he had never visited it in his work, that he knew nothing about it. Anything could have been on that island -- more gas, explosives, something... something else entirely. And yet, it took nearly six years for our leader to get around to sending a team out to investigate.

"I was told that my father and I would be heading up the team. I wasn't particularly pleased at the thought of leaving Blaine behind, but I knew that our leader was becoming increasingly unhappy with my behavior, with my... lack of loyalty. It seemed safest, to acquiesce. To placate him, for the time being. And I didn't expect to be gone for very long. A few days, at the most."

"But you weren't gone for a few days," Blaine breaks in, his voice a little choked. When Ben turns, he sees Blaine pushing himself up on the couch until he's sitting straighter, taller. "You were gone for three weeks."

"Blaine --" Ben says, because he doesn't want to silence his son, necessarily, but he knows how hard this is, harder for Blaine than it is for himself, and he shouldn't have to --

But Blaine is resolute; he turns to look at Burt and Carole, his jaw set more firmly. "He doesn't remember," he says, and the traitorous trembling is almost out of his voice this time. "What they did to him -- he doesn't remember what happened."

"But you do?" Burt asks, and it's as gentle as Burt can make it, probably, but it's skeptical. Ben would blame him for that, but he can't, not really. He needed proof, too, at first.

"I know how it sounds," Blaine says, leaning forward a little bit; it shifts his leg on the ottoman, makes him wince, and Kurt's hand is immediately on his shoulder, trying to pull him back again. Blaine, however, will not be moved. "I know it's... hard to believe. But I also know what I saw, and I know that it was real. It happened. What I saw happened."

"I don't... I don't understand, honey," Carole asks, tilting her head to the side and leaning in a little, more curious than worried. "Why wouldn't we believe you? Why... What _did_ you see, Blaine?"

"Blaine," Ben says again, holding up his hand, trying to stop this before it gets too out of hand. He should be the one to tell this story; it's easier for him. Because he's _not_ the one who remembers. "You don't -- You don't have to do this. I know enough to deliver the gist of it; we don't need --"

"We do, Dad," Blaine snaps, his voice loud enough that Finn flinches back a little bit. "If we're going to tell them everything, it has to be _everything_ , not just the gist. And this is important, this is --"

"It's okay," Kurt murmurs, his hand still on Blaine's shoulder, not restraining anymore, but... petting. Comforting. "It's okay."

Blaine shakes his head. "It really isn't," he says, his voice cracking again. When he looks up at Ben, his eyes are shining, and Ben takes a step back, raises his hands, and (metaphorically speaking), grants his son the floor.

"Okay," Blaine says, his shoulders going back, his chin lifting up. He looks over at Burt and Carole again, instinctively turning towards the parents, towards the authority in the room. "When my dad... When he was gone. I missed him so much, just... constantly, all the time, and no one would tell me where he was, really, or what was happening. And what they did tell me..." He shakes his head; the gesture reminds Ben more than a little of himself, and it hurts in an unexpected way. "They didn't know that they were lying, not all of them; some of them were just repeating what they'd been told. But it wasn't true. I knew it wasn't true. And I just... I needed to know where he was. Where he _really_ was. It was all I could think about. 

"And then I started dreaming about it. And then the dreams..." He bites his lip. "Then they changed. And I... I know how it sounds. Believe me. I know that it seems like... But I wasn't just dreaming, anymore. I was... I was _with_ him; I could see... I could see everything. Everything that happened, everything they did to him. I saw all of it.

"There was a room." Blaine drops his head again, struggling with it, and Ben goes to him without even thinking about it, crouching by the ottoman with one hand on his son's sock-covered ankle, trying to remind him. _I'm here. You got me out and you kept me with you and I'm still here._ "He fought them, at first; they would try to get him to go with them, into the room, and he'd fight, and when my dad fights, he fights really hard." Blaine gives his father a lopsided smile at that, but his eyes are still glassy with tears. "So they drugged him, and they dragged him into the room, and they put him in a chair, and they strapped him down, and there were these glasses, and... Like I said, I know how it sounds, but I swear to you, it's all true. And then they would show him pictures, little bits of film, but it was all very fast, like --" He extends his free hand, the one not still tightly clasped in Kurt's, and snaps his fingers, quickly -- the sound is sharp, and Finn flinches again every time Blaine snaps his fingers. "And mostly it was just normal, like coins or boats on a lake or some stairs, but then some of it... Some of it wasn't. Some of it was..." He shudders, and doesn't try to describe it. "And there was no pattern; there were never any patterns. It would just come up, suddenly, something so awful, and he couldn't anticipate it, brace himself or anything, it just... It just was.

"And it was loud, _so_ loud, like... drumming, but different somehow. Fast and almost... like metal, or something. Or bullets. And there would be this screaming, just out of nowhere, and it hurt, but... He couldn't cover his ears, and he couldn't turn his head, and even when he tried to close his eyes he could never... it was never long enough. And sometimes he'd be in the room for a few minutes, maybe half an hour at most, and then they'd take him out again and let him rest. But then sometimes it was longer -- almost a whole day, once, and then other times for hours and hours. And they didn't build up to it, or anything, they just... There was no pattern. I think if there'd been a pattern, it would have been different. Easier. But there was no pattern. And that was the hardest part.

"And sometimes, when they took him out of the room, they would give him food and let him sleep, and then sometimes they wouldn't. Or they'd let him fall asleep, and then they'd wake him up. Not always for the room, even; sometimes they would just ask him questions. About the Island, about our leader. Or about me, or his father. And it didn't make a difference how he answered -- he'd answer everything right, the way they wanted him to, and they'd lock him in the room for four hours. And then the next time he'd answer everything wrong just to spite them, and they'd give him food and let him sleep again. Or they wouldn't -- they'd stick him back in the room and leave him there for... for hours and hours. But he couldn't predict what they were going to do next; he tried, but he could never... And after a while, he just stopped trying."

Burt nods, and there's something uneasy on his face, but Ben doesn't think it's doubt, not exactly. He thinks that it's possible, that it's just barely possible, that Burt believes him. "And you dreamed all this?" he asks, voice still gentle. "While you were sleeping; you saw it in your dreams?"

Blaine nods, biting his lip. "At first," he says, a little hesitantly. "But after a while, it was like -- I didn't have to be asleep anymore. I could just reach out. And the less he fought them, the weaker he got, the easier it was for me to -- to get in. To see. And then, when he... when he gave up. When they didn't have to drug him to get him into the room, when he just... went with them. When he stopped sleeping, and he wouldn't eat anymore, and he stopped talking because he couldn't remember the words." Blaine reaches out, gently touches Ben's hair, like a blessing. "I was with him all the time, then. 

"And I wanted to -- I wanted to help, but I couldn't do anything, that way. Because he couldn't see me. He didn't know I was there. And I couldn't touch him, or talk to him, or do anything. So I realized that I would have to actually go to him, to be with him for real.

"Tom -- the man who was watching me, Tom -- he didn't believe me when I told him what they were doing to my dad. I mean, he was nice, and everything, but he didn't... He didn't know; he thought it was just my imagination. And I asked him to take me to Mr. Widmore -- that was our leader, Mr. Widmore -- and he wouldn't. He said Mr. Widmore was too important; that I couldn't interrupt him with something silly like this. But it wasn't silly; my dad had stopped eating; if he didn't eat soon, he was going to --"

Blaine falls silent and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths; Ben squeezes his ankle and watches Kurt rub his shoulder and the two of them do their best to ease him through it, keep him going.

"So I went on my own."

Burt actually lets out a quiet little snort of laughter at that; he subsides even before anyone can look at him reprovingly, holds up his hand, and says, "Sorry. It's not --" He shakes his head, still smiling. "Of course you went on your own, kid," he says, and he sounds almost proud, proud of Blaine. "Of course you did."

That makes Blaine smile, but only for a moment. "It's okay; it's..." He sighs. "I think Mr. Widmore... I think he thought it was funny, too, at first. I mean, here's this six-year old kid, barging into his study, and telling him that I'd seen what he was doing, that I _knew_... But he asked me what I knew, and I told him, and I don't think it was so funny anymore. I think..." He takes a deep breath, and Ben squeezes his ankle again, trying to provide some sort of comfort. "I think he was scared, a little.

"But he listened to me, which no one else had done, and he didn't tell me I was just having bad dreams and shouldn't worry, and he didn't tell me it was my imagination, either. He said that... He said that I was right, about what was happening. And he said that he was sorry. That he hadn't meant for things to go as far as they had, and that he was worried about my father, too. He said that if I thought that I could bring my father back, make him more like himself again, at least get him eating... That he thought it was worth trying. And he said he would take me to my father at once. And he did."

There's a moment where Blaine tilts his head, looking down at Ben, still crouching at his feet. "I brought you a banana," he says, eyes soft and voice very tender. "You couldn't peel it by yourself; you were so... Your hands were shaking so hard. You couldn't peel it. So I peeled it for you, and I broke it into little chunks, and you ate every bit of it. And I told you you'd done a good job, and you smiled at me. Because that was the only reason you ate that banana. You wanted to make me happy."

"Hmm." Ben rubs, absently, at Blaine's calf; he manages a small smile, just for him. "I wish I remembered that."

Blaine just shakes his head. "I don't."

"You don't remember any of it?" Kurt asks, his voice soft. There may be more doubt in his expression than there is in his father's, _may_ be. It's difficult to tell; mostly, he just looks worried.

"No." Ben pushes himself back up to his feet with some effort, his legs and back stiff from the uncomfortable position -- when Finn reaches out to help him, he waves him off. "No, I... To be honest, I don't even remember going to the Hydra Station in the first place. Nor do I recall very much of my recovery. There are bits and pieces, enough that I'm aware that my condition at the time must have been very severe, but..." He shrugs. "I don't remember any of it now, nor do I think I ever will. It's... It's gone.

"So, since I couldn't actually remember what had happened to me, I wasn't particularly concerned when I was informed that I would be sent back to the Hydra Station to finish the work I'd started."

"Wait," Finn says, staring at him. "What? But you -- You almost _died_. And Blaine, he --"

Ben nods. "Yes, well. I suppose that was the point. I was... inconvenient. I had broken the rules; I had openly defied our leader. And, of course, I was very protective of Blaine, moreso than ever before, and I wouldn't have permitted any further... testing, of his abilities. And, as I understand it, our leader was very, very interested in testing Blaine, seeing what he was capable of.

"When I told Blaine that I was returning to the Hydra Station, he was... He was inconsolable. He was terrified of what might happen to me, if I was returned. He begged me not to go. And when I told him, as I had before, that it was the only way for the two of us to be safe, he... He told me what he'd seen, what had happened to me on the Hydra Station, how close he'd come to losing me. I'm afraid that I must confess that I didn't quite believe him, at first. I didn't say so, but..." He glances back at his son, apologetically. "But then Tom came to me.

"As Blaine said, Tom had been watching over Blaine in my absence, and although he doubted Blaine at first, I think he began to wonder. After all, our leader had listened to Blaine, when Blaine went to him; he'd done as Blaine asked, and brought him to me at once. And then, when I returned, I was... I was in a pretty bad way. It made him suspicious. So he began to ask questions -- unofficially, of course.

"He heard, from more than one person, that when the DHARMA Initiative managed to capture one of us, they were taken away from the Island, to someplace rather like the Hydra Station. No one could tell him what happened after that; none of them remembered, just as I did not remember. But one or two of them said that they thought they'd seen my father, when they were off the Island. That they remembered him with a mop, or passing them as they went down a hallway, small moments, but things that stuck out for them. This was... troubling, for Tom. And although my father reassured him that I would be safe at the Hydra Station, that he'd take care of me...

"Well. Clearly, Tom wasn't about to take his word for it. And so he came to my house one night when Blaine was sleeping, and told me that we needed to talk about what Blaine had seen, and what that might mean for him.

"He didn't say that Blaine was right, not in so many words. But he did say that he thought that Blaine was... special. That he had the ability to do extraordinary things. And he implied that my return to the Hydra Station had nothing to do with any duty I had to the Island, that it would rather be a test for Blaine, to see what he was truly capable of. Then he said that he was sorry, but that he wouldn't be able to watch Blaine for me as he had before. That our leader, Charles Widmore, had taken a personal interest in Blaine's development, and that Blaine would go to him after I left. 

"As for Tom himself, he was being sent to the mainland, to retrieve some new recruits to help us safeguard the Island. He told me to keep an eye out for his submarine, that it wouldn't be far from my own little ship. And he... he told me that Blaine would allowed to accompany me to the docks, where we would say goodbye. And that he was sorry he couldn't do more for me. Then he apologized again, and he left."

Ben folds his hands behind his back, and takes a deep breath.

"After he was gone, I noticed that he had left something behind. His gun was sitting on my kitchen table."

He looks up at Carole, and then at Burt; and he sees horror, and a certain sort of fear, but he also sees understanding. Because they may not have much in common, really, but they're parents, all three of them. They know.

"Blaine's concerns, of course, were for my safety, and my well-being," he explains. "And it's not that I'm a particularly selfless person, but the danger was so vague, and it all seemed so... But the idea that Charles would take my _son_ from me?" He shakes his head. "No. I knew Charles very, very well by then, and I knew what he was capable of. If he thought for one moment that Blaine was special, that he could do extraordinary things... He would test him. Until he broke. Charles would ruin him, in the end. I couldn't allow it.

"Needless to say, I didn't give Tom his gun back."

_It feels strange, to be doing this in the daylight. When his father... When his father sacrificed him, the first time, it was dark; there was no light, and he could barely see. It's so bright, this time. He can see everything -- the submarine at the end of the farthest dock, the glinting of sunlight on the water, Blaine's wide eyes, his father's lips pressed tight together._

_"Dad," he says, quietly; he means to say more, but he doesn't have words for the rest. Words have been easier, lately, but he still can't always find them. But he supposes that words aren't always necessary._

_His father swallows hard, looks away. "I'm doing it for you, Benjamin," he says, and he doesn't even sound like he believes himself anymore. "Everything I've done since we came to this godforsaken rock. I did it for you."_

_Ben studies his father for a long time, and he wonders why this seems new to him. Why he's never seen this before. "You know, Dad," he says, at last. "You're a really terrible liar."_

_His father doesn't answer._

_Next to him, Blaine whimpers a little; his hand latches onto Ben's trousers, pulling him to a stop. His grip is so tight; Ben wonders what would happen if he were to actually go through with this. He wonders how tightly Blaine would cling to him, at the end; wonders how hard it would be for their guards to pull him away, if it would take more than one of them. He wonders if his son would cry, if he'd scream, if he'd beg._

_Words are hard for him. Being sure of things is harder. Sometimes the world around him hardly feels real. But Ben knows one thing: he would honestly rather die than see that._

"And when the time came, when they took us to the docks, and I saw the boat, and I saw the submarine just beyond it..."

He shrugs.

"I did what I had to do."

_"Blaine," he says, quietly, and then turns and crouches down next to his son. Tom's gun, hidden under his shirt, digs in to his hip as he moves. "Are you frightened?"_

_Blaine doesn't answer; he chews on his lip, and looks up at his father with large, frightened eyes, and finally nods._

_"It's okay," Ben tells him, reassuringly, and rests one hand on his shoulder. "It's okay to be frightened. But you trust me, don't you?"_

_Blaine nods again, and Ben reaches out to ruffle his hair before scooping him up and settling him on his hip, the side opposite the gun. He won't have much time to draw; he can only hope that he's still fast enough, that his reflexes aren't dulled, his aim still good. "Hold on tight," he murmurs into Blaine's hair. "And don't let go."_

_Blaine's arms tighten, obediently, around Ben's neck, and when he's satisfied that his son has the best grip his arms will allow, Ben lets go of him with one arm and reaches underneath his shirt for the gun._

_"Ben," his father says, stepping in front of him. "You're only going to make this harder on the boy. You know that, right?"_

_Ben pushes up to his feet, carefully, and Blaine slips a little bit but manages to hold on, tightening his grip to compensate. "Dad," Ben says again, and doesn't take aim. Not yet. "You should probably get out of the way now."_

_His father doesn't budge._

_Ben does what he has to._

"Now, obviously, a submarine is a complex piece of machinery, and I didn't have much time to figure it out. Although the people escorting us were all either injured or dead, there would be backup coming, and very quickly. Somehow -- I'm not even really sure just how -- I managed to get the engines running and get her submerged. That bought us some time. And then I stumbled upon a set of pre-programmed co-ordinates, and since, honestly, I had no real idea where I was heading... I let it go."

_There is a chair, by the control panel, and he supposes he should be sitting in it, rather than on the floor. But Blaine has crawled into his lap and is clinging to his shirt, and honestly, he's not sure he remembers how to move right now, so he stays where he is, Blaine's head tucked against his chest. Blaine's hair smells like cordite and blood, and Ben can't imagine what this must be like, for him._

_"I'm sorry," he whispers, wrapping his arms around his son. "I'm sorry you had to see that."_

_Blaine just squirms closer, clings tighter._

_They fall asleep that way._

"I suppose that, under the circumstances, I shouldn't have been particularly surprised to see one of my people waiting for me when we finally docked. And I don't think I would have been, really, but. She was... She was someone I hadn't seen for quite some time, someone I was honestly never expecting to see again. And then, too, she didn't shoot me on sight. Which was something of a shock."

_He stands on the dock, Blaine still clutched tightly in his arms, and shivers. It's colder here than on the Island, of course, but more than that, it's just... New. Different, and not necessarily in a good way. It's been more than twenty years since he last set foot on the mainland, and so much has changed. There are so many things... He doesn't think he has words for all of them._

_And it's so_ bright _. Even at nighttime, there's so many lights, so much..._

_It's overwhelming._

_"Don't just stand there gaping," Ellie scolds, throwing a blanket over his shoulders. He shifts Blaine's weight to his hip, trying to pull the blanket around the both of them. Clucking her tongue, Ellie reaches out to help him. "The car's waiting for us, and we haven't got all night."_

_"Of course," Ben says, bemused; he finally manages to catch the blanket in his fingers and hold it there, tight enough that it won't fall away from them. It is, after all, much colder here than it is on the Island. He wouldn't want Blaine to catch a chill._

_"Dad?" Blaine murmurs, shifting a little in Ben's hold._

_Ben shushes him, pausing for just a moment to rest his cheek against Blaine's forehead. He closes his eyes, and for just a moment, he feels... complete, again. Like himself. "It's all right," he says, quietly. "It's all right now."_

_When he opens his eyes up again, Ellie is watching him. She's so much older now, but her eyes are still sharp and shrewd. She's still dangerous, as dangerous as Charles in her own way. And he thinks that, given time, he might learn to be grateful for that. "Come on," she says again, and turns to walk away. "Daniel's at Oxford now. You can have his room."_

"As it turns out, Blaine and I were extremely fortunate. The woman who'd come to collect us when we arrived in Los Angeles, Eloise, had a son of her own. Older, of course, than Blaine, but... She was sympathetic, more than I would have expected. Also, she was one of a very few people -- indeed, perhaps the only person -- that Charles Widmore dared not cross. So long as we stayed with her, we were safe.

"But. For all Eloise's kindness, she was a woman of... somewhat limited patience. At some point, she was going to want her house back. For my part, I was eager to try to stand on my own two feet. I was in my thirties, I was free from my father at long last, free from my people... I wanted to live. And I wanted my son to live, and go to school, and have as close to a normal childhood as I could give him. 

"Before we left, Eloise warned me not to become complacent. She told me that Charles didn't let go of things easily, once he had them. It was possible, of course; she'd managed it, in the end. But I would have to fight very, very hard for it.

"She was right. As usual."

_The sound of something breaking, shattered glass, and Ben is on his feet before he's even really awake, fumbling his way to the closet, yanking down the shoebox that contains his gun, the one that Tom gave him. He loads it, listening all the while, but his people have always been good at moving quietly; he can't really hear much of anything._

_It doesn't matter much. He knows that they're there. And he knows what he has to do now._

"We were in Tustin for a little over six months before my people found me. I neutralized the threat, and we moved on. After that it was Sedona, Portland, Omaha, Galveston, New Paltz -- Sometimes it took them well over a year to find us, and sometimes it was like they just... followed the U-Haul. One of the people who came for us actually asked me about it once, if it wouldn't just be easier to return home and be judged, rather than living this way. 

"I asked her if she had any idea what that meant, being judged. For someone who had killed their own people and abandoned the Island; I asked her if she had any idea at all what Charles would do to me if I were to come home. I asked her if she knew what would happen to my _son_ if I was no longer there to protect him."

_The wonderful thing is that the more impassioned she grows, the more her speech takes on the peculiar cadences of religious fervor, the looser her grip on Blaine becomes. She doesn't let go of him; she isn't that stupid, but Blaine is far stronger than he looks. And then, too, they have this down to an art, after all this time._

_Ben tunes out what she's saying and focuses all his attention on her hands, waiting for them to go just slack enough for Blaine to break free._

_And Blaine watches him, and he waits too._

"She said yes. She said that I deserved to be punished for what I had done. And that Blaine, _my_ Blaine, belonged to the Island, that I had stolen him from my people, and that someday, they would take him from me. That the Island was his destiny, and that I was only delaying the inevitable.

"So I shot her."

Carole shudders a little, at that, but she says nothing.

"After New Paltz, we moved to Fort Wayne." Ben looks back at his son, who has hunched in on himself, his eyes downcast. "We were there for almost three years before..." Kurt starts rubbing at Blaine's shoulder again, soothingly. "Well. My people aren't the only dangerous people in the world, after all. And I don't regret leaving," he adds, his eyes still on Blaine. "Not for a second. I would never stay anywhere if I thought it would hurt you, Blaine. You know that."

Blaine chews on his lip, doesn't manage to look up. "I know," he whispers.

It's not enough, but they do have guests, and the story isn't entirely told yet, so Ben forces himself to look away. "So I sent Blaine to Dalton, so he could be safe," he says. "And I took the first job I could find that would allow me to relocate to Ohio. Which brought me to McKinley. Which brings us here."

Burt scratches at his head, contemplatively. "Which brings _you_ here," he says, finally. "But that doesn't explain how Karofsky got involved."

Ben takes a deep breath, letting himself relax. No matter what happens now, the worst is over. "No, it doesn't." He glances over at Finn, who's hunched in on himself again, staring at his hands like everything will start to make sense if he just looks at them for long enough. "Finn," he says, quietly, and Finn startles. "I noticed, when we were coming in, that you had managed to locate my briefcase."

"Uh, yeah," Finn says, his eyes widening a little bit. "Yeah, I... See, because you left it behind, when you... You know, when Karofsky started... And Artie gave it to Kurt, and then Kurt gave it to me because it kind of looks like his and he didn't want to get confused, and then I didn't want to lose it so I kind of just carried it all day, and --"

"Of course," Ben says. "Of course. That's... Thank you, for remembering. I would like it back now, if I may."

 

"Sure." Finn reaches over the side of the couch, fumbling for it; he grabs it by the leather strap and holds it out; Ben crosses over to him, takes it, and pulls a thin manila folder out of the back pocket. He immediately passes the folder over to Carole.

"Before I can tell you how David Karofsky got mixed up in all of this," he says, quietly, "I need to introduce you to a man named Leslie Arzt."


	18. After All I've Been Through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I need to introduce you to a man named Leslie Arzt." (In which we learn a few things about Karofsky's father, and Burt and Carole attempt to put the pieces together only to learn that a few of them have been left out.)

_day 1_

 

It's the pregnant girl that makes him think of it. 

She's little and cute and blonde and helpless-looking, and the moment she smiles at him, he feels like absolute shit. Because she shouldn't be relying on some stranger to help her with her bags; there should be someone with her, some boyfriend or husband or at least a father, someone to carry her things and take care of her and let her get on with the important business of just plain being pregnant, of giving life to something brand-new and wonderful. She shouldn't be alone. Not now. Not when she's about to have a child.

Which makes him think about Jennifer, who is alone. 

And that's on him. 

And that's what makes him think of it.

Leslie's not sure why -- maybe it's the fact that she carried his son, maybe it's how long they spent together, maybe it's just her -- but every time he gets nostalgic about some ex, it's always Jennifer. Never Rochelle, even though she was the first; never Aimee, although she was the most recent. Jennifer. Which kind of makes him wonder if she ever gets nostalgic about him. She's never remarried; every child support check he sends out is proof of that. And, granted, maybe she just hasn't met anyone new, being stuck in Nowhere, Ohio and all. But still. Maybe there's still something there. Maybe there's a reason he can't let her go.

Maybe.

Probably not, though. 

He settles into his seat and fastens the belt and thinks about it anyway, because he might as well. Because that internet dating thing didn't go so great (probably should've just used his real picture from the start instead of borrowing someone else's, saved himself some trouble), and he's lonely, and sometimes it seems like it could be a good thing for him. It wouldn't just be stepping into his old life, of course; things have changed, and the boy's gotten big (Jennifer doesn't really write anymore, but she does send pictures -- a big, strapping boy in hockey pads, broad shoulders and kind of a goony smile, and Leslie never really thought that David looked too much like him, but now he's starting to see it, the resemblance). It'd be different from what it was. These things always are. But to have someone else in the house again, to not be alone. It'd be a nice change, a welcome change.

And hell, in a couple of years, they'll be sending David off to college. So even if three winds up being a crowd, it'll be just the two of them, soon enough. Which he could handle, he thinks. The fatherhood thing he was never too good at, but he thinks he was all right as a husband, for the most part. He could make it work. He could figure it out.

Of course, it's not really gonna happen. He knows that. He'll think about it for now, and it'll sound good at first. Sound great, even, sound perfect. Sound like it's just what he needs. But then the pregnant girl will stop looking so charming; she'll badger the stewardesses and use the restroom five times in an hour, and it'll start to remind him of what Jennifer could be when she stopped trying, how she used to nag him all the time, how nothing was ever enough for her. And he'll start thinking about the boy, how he was always a handful, always with some practice to go to or some Cub Scout meeting or some homework he needed help with or just pestering, the way he always did -- _Dad, come throw the ball with me, c'mon._ And it'll stop sounding so perfect, and start sounding a lot more like a pain in his ass. And he'll remember why he's been avoiding it for so long, why he's never written anything other than child support checks and the odd birthday card, why he doesn't call or come visit. He'll remember why he was the one who pushed Jennifer to head back to Nowhere, Ohio in the first place, and why he was the one who pushed for the divorce in the first place, and why he was the one who pushed. Who pushed them away. 

Because the house and the wife and the broad-shouldered son with the goony smile? These are all great things. For other people. Not for him. He might daydream about going back sometimes, when things fall apart in the real world, but it's never going to be something he tries. Not again.

And by the time the plane lands at L.A.X., he'll have forgotten all about the whole thing. And it'll be some other girl, some other website, some other borrowed picture. And when that breaks up, he'll think about Jennifer again, for an hour or two. And then he'll forget her again until the next time. And the next.

Which is probably a sign that he shouldn't be thinking of her in the first place, really. 

But hell, it's a long flight from Sydney to L.A., and it's not like he's got anything better to do. So he smiles at the pregnant girl one last time, and settles back into his seat, and closes his eyes, and dreams of going home to his wife and son, and knows that he's safe, because he knows he'll never really do it.

 

*

 

It's that first picture that Burt keeps coming back to, over and over again: the guy in the polo shirt, sitting in the stands at some game, somewhere, with his kid perched on his knee. The boy is smiling, this big, goony grin, but the guy himself isn't, not really. His eyes are squinting shut, and his lips are twisted in this fake sort of smirk, like he knows he should be smiling, but he doesn't really feel it.

_"He --"_

_Kurt stops himself after the first word, when Ben (and everyone else in the room turns to look at him); there's a long pause before Ben very softly, very gently asks, "Yes, Kurt?"_

_"Just..." Kurt's shoulders heave as he takes a great big breath, and this time Blaine's the one to reach out, petting gently at Kurt's hand. "Karofsky. He -- he said --"_

_"He said that it was our fault," Blaine finishes, glancing sidelong at Kurt as if checking to see if he's offended by the interruption. He's not; if anything, he looks relieved. "My dad's and mine, I mean, not Kurt's. He said that if it wasn't for us,_ He _wouldn't have come back. And that_ He _ruined everything. He didn't say who'd come back, and I don't know if Kurt knew, but... It was his father. His father had come back. For us. David was... David was pretty upset about that. About his father coming back."_

He didn't mention the whole suicide thing, the part where Dave Karofsky had apparently been _so_ upset that he begged that Santana girl to kill him. And neither Kurt nor Ben nor Burt himself had reminded him about it. Hell, like the story wasn't grim enough. But Burt had been thinking about it. He'd been thinking about it the whole time. About that kid with the goony smile, damn near grown up now, coming to school with a gun, threatening Kurt and Blaine and Santana with it, and then begging to be shot when his plan went haywire.

Burt's not positive, but he's pretty sure he'll be thinking about that for a while, too. That it's going to be a damn hard thing for him to get rid of.

Carole sets a mug down at his elbow, then slides into the chair across from him, her own mug still firmly in hand. Burt picks the drink up, sniffs at it. "Coffee?" he asks. "At nine o'clock at night?"

"It's decaf," Carole replies, shrugging and taking a sip. "Anyway, were you planning on sleeping tonight? Because honestly, I'm not sure I'm even going to try right now." 

Burt sighs, flips the folder shut, and leans in. Because he knows what she's going to say next, what he's been afraid of her saying all along. "Look," he says, quietly. "Carole."

"Don't you 'Look Carole' me," she retorts, immediately, and Burt draws back in surprise. "You have no idea what's on my mind, Burt Hummel, and I thought you knew better than to assume by now. You know what that makes you."

"Yeah," Burt says, and half-smiles, because _damn_ , he loves this woman. He'll let her go if he has to; he's not going to risk her if that's not what she wants, but damn does he love her. "Yeah, I do. All right then, Ms. Unpredictable. Tell me what's on your mind."

 

*

 

_day 1 (cont'd)_

 

"Am I okay?" he demands, and part of him realizes it's stupid, but the thing is he just can't believe it. Everything is noise and heat and fire, people screaming and crying, the crackle of flames and the smell of smoke and gasoline and burning upholstery, and he can still _feel_ it -- the shaking, the sudden drop that sent him straining against his seat belt, the oxygen mask pressed to his face and that odd, almost peaceful moment where they'd dropped again and he'd gone weightless -- and there's no way he's actually alive. There's just no way it could even make sense. "Look at me, am I okay?" 

The woman looks at him with perplexed eyes -- stares at him, really, then staggers on without answering. And he thinks he isn't okay at all. He thinks he's dead. 

He's dead. And the woman who helped him up, the woman who couldn't tell him whether or not he was okay? She's dead too. And they're all of them dead, every last person on that plane. The pregnant girl, the nice middle-aged couple sitting ahead of him, Cindy the stewardess and the guy in the suit who kept calling her 'sweetheart.' The middle-eastern guy and that unwashed redneck who snarled at everyone who walked past his seat, the little boy who got snappy when his dad told him to put away the Nintendo DS, the long-legged blonde and her scowling boyfriend, the fat guy with the headphones, the scruffy-looking British guy with the painted fingernails. They're dead.

They're all dead. All of them.

And so is he.

A line from an old Elvis Costello song comes back to him -- _You'll get used to it after a spell, for Heaven is Hell in reverse._ He's not sure what this is. The fire and all the screaming are bad signs, sure, but those could stop. He thinks this place might be nice, if there weren't so much screaming. So really, it could be either. Could be both, maybe. 

He'll have to wait for the obligatory performance of "My Favorite Things" to find out.

The leggy blonde girl's scowling boyfriend dashes past him, his blue shirt dirty with soot and sweat, shouting "Does anyone have a pen?" 

With nothing better to do, Leslie chases after, shouting "I do! I've got a pen!"

 

*

 

"It's that damned banana," Carole admits, both hands curling around her mug of decaf, although she doesn't raise it.

Burt blinks at her from across the table, tilts his head to the side. There's a lot rattling around in his head right now -- poison gas and submarines, one man doing his damndest to sell his son, another man fighting just as hard to save his own -- he honestly can't remember how the banana comes into play. "Beg pardon?" he asks.

Carole shakes her head, looks down at the table. "What Blaine said," she says, her voice quieter now, and more than a little sad. "About his dad getting locked in that... in that room, and everything. And he stopped eating. And Blaine brought him a banana, and peeled it for him, and broke it into bites so he could --"

"Yeah," Burt says, and doesn't even stop to ask why his voice has all of a sudden gotten raspy, because he damn well knows. "Yeah, I remember now."

"He still does that," Carole says, looking up at him. "Blaine, he... Before Dr. Arzt showed up at the hospital, before things got... Well. I volunteered to go get some coffee -- Ben had just woken up; he was looking a little ragged -- and Blaine said that his dad hadn't had breakfast. And he asked me to bring back a banana for him." Carole shrugs, taps her fingers on the sides of her mug. "Obviously, that didn't happen. But when Ben came back from... whatever he did with that Dr. Arzt, scaring him off... When he came back, he had three cups of coffee, a bagel with cream cheese, and a banana."

And the thing is, there's no way Ben could have really understood why that banana was so important to his son; Burt believes that. He honestly, truly believes that whatever happened to Ben in that room (because he figures something must've happened in that room, even if it wasn't quite what Blaine thinks it was), he doesn't remember a moment of it. And he knows Ben doesn't remember his son coming in to take care of him afterwards; it was written all over his face, that sort of soft confusion. He knows that, as much as that banana meant to Blaine, it meant next to nothing to Ben.

Except, of course, it meant something to Blaine. And that'd be enough for Ben. It'd always be enough.

"It was the damndest thing," Carole adds, shaking her head. "I mean, not half an hour before, I watched Ben drag that Dr. Arzt down to the elevators, and I thought, _he's gonna kill that man_. There was absolutely, 100%, no doubt in my mind. I thought -- I've met some scary people in my life, Burt. Not a lot of them, but I've met a few. I have never seen anyone as absolutely terrifying as Ben Anderson was in that moment. Never seen anyone that... that dangerous." She sighs. "And then, twenty minutes later at most, he's sitting there, meek as a lamb, while his son peels a banana for him. And I... I couldn't reconcile it, Burt. The dad, and then the... the killer, because I do believe he's killed people, Burt, and I think that if there hadn't been so many witnesses, he'd have killed that Dr. Arzt right there in the hallway. I really do.

"But he didn't." She stares down thoughtfully, moodily at her coffee. "He didn't do it, because he would have gone to jail, and that would have meant leaving Blaine, and I don't think he'd ever do that, unless maybe he thought he was doing it to help Blaine. And when he brought back that banana, that was for Blaine, so Blaine wouldn't worry about him not taking care of himself. And then he let Blaine peel it for him, let Blaine take care of him a little, to keep him from going out of his skin with worry. That man would do anything for his son."

Burt cocks his head to the side, studies Carole for a while. "'Course he would," he says, eventually. "You and me, we'd do the same for ours. Wouldn't we?"

She looks up at him, locks eyes with him. "And yet neither of us is packing our bags," she points out. "And neither is Ben."

He thinks about that for a moment, sighs, drops his eyes back down to the table. "No," he says. "No, I guess we're not."

 

*

 

_day 27_

 

It kind of makes sense that, in the end, he's the one who finds her. 

It's not something he meant to do. He's not exactly John Locke, the Great White Hunter, or Sayid the Soldier, or Boone the Lifeguard, or even Tree-Climbing Katie, who's always sticking her freckled nose into everyone else's business, wiggling her way into every hunt, every search party, every random hike that happens. He's not Sawyer the Redneck (who has a truly disturbing habit of pulling guns seemingly out of thin air), or Michael from New York, who doesn't really have any wilderness skills but keeps acting like he does anyway. He's not the Rock Star, or the Fat Guy, or even Scott or Steve. He's just Dr. Leslie Arzt, the guy with all the bugs.

And the thing about collecting all those bugs? It keeps him moving, wandering, all over the Island.

So it makes sense that, although he's not one of the people who goes searching for the Pregnant Girl after she gets herself kidnapped, he's the one who finds her. Just out in the middle of the jungle, sitting on a misshapen stump, happily crocheting a baby bootie. She looks up at him and smiles. 

He takes a step back and looks around, trying vainly to figure out where and when he hit his head, or stumbled into a field of hallucinogenic plants, or passed out from dehydration, or whatever he did to wind up seeing this girl, here, in the middle of nowhere. Because whatever he's seeing, it's not real. He knows it's not real.

"I know you," the girl says, her voice a little dreamy-sounding. Arzt's heard that tone of voice before, mainly from his students. Not all of them; just the ones with a bad habit of breaking into the chemistry lab to swipe pipettes and flasks and anything else that might be vaguely bong-like. "Don't I know you?"

Leslie takes a couple of steps back in towards her, because that's not really the Pregnant Girl's voice at all, and for some reason, that's what makes him realize that this is actually happening. "Yeah," he says, still glancing around, because if this is real? Then there's trouble. And it's close. "Yeah, you do." He reaches out to take her by the elbow, and she flinches back a little, frowning at him. "C'mon. Hey, c'mon, uh... Chelsea, or Christine, or..."

"Claire," she says, and suddenly smiles again, holding out her hand for him to shake. "My name's Claire. What's yours?"

He grabs her hand and tugs her to her feet, catching her as she stumbles. "Leslie," he says. "My name's Leslie. It's... uh... it's nice to... Anyway, we gotta go now, so why don't you just --"

She lets herself be pulled a few steps before she finally digs her heels in, scowling again and shaking her head. "Nuh-uh," she says, and when he wraps his arm around her shoulders, she tries to shrink away. "No, it's fine. I can stay. Juliet told me I could stay until she got back. She promised."

Just the name _Juliet_ makes chills go down Leslie's spine. "Yeah, about that," he mutters, managing to drag the girl a few more stumbling steps before she ducks out from under his arm, giggling. "About... uh... Juliet. Where'd she go, anyway?"

"That's a real good question," someone else drawls -- male voice, slow and confident. Arzt turns, slowly, and sees a man -- white hair, navy blue shirt, Dockers -- stepping out of the woods towards them. It's not anyone he knows, not one of his fellow survivors, so that means it must be one of Juliet's people. One of the Others. He pulls Claire in towards him; she's still giggling, stoned right up to the eyeballs, and this should not be him. This should be Locke, or Sayid, or Sawyer, or Kate -- this should be anyone but him. "Where is Juliet, anyway? Seeing as how she was supposed to be --"

"Listen," Leslie says, backing up slowly, pulling Claire with him as he goes. "My people, they know where I was going. If I don't come back, they'll know. They'll know, and they'll... They'll come for me. They'll find me."

The man chuckles, shaking his head. "They'll come for you," he says, still smirking. "Like they came for her? Because I heard a rumor that _that_ didn't work out so good, last time."

Leslie swallows hard. "I..." He reaches for his back pocket, sudden inspiration striking. "I have a gun," he says, grabbing at nothing, hoping it'll look convincing. "I have a gun, but I... but I don't want to -- I don't want to hurt anyone, so why don't we just --"

"He's lying," a voice calls from behind him, and Leslie freezes into place, suddenly aware of how trapped he is. "He doesn't have a gun."

"Which is a damned good thing," the man says, shifting his eyes away from Leslie and Claire to the person coming up behind him. _Juliet_. "Considering that if he had, he might've --"

It's not much of a distraction, but it's as close as he's going to get, so Leslie grabs hold of the pregnant girl and starts running. There is a brief pause -- a very brief pause, and then he hears swearing and footsteps in the grass, and he tries to speed up, but the pregnant girl won't let him. "Stop it!" she shouts, twisting and slapping at him as he drags her along. "Stop! Let me go! Let me _go_!"

And the thing is, he barely has any kind of head start to speak of, and there's two of them chasing after him, and she's honestly just slowing him down and anyway, he can come back for her now that he knows where she is. Or send the others, send Locke and Kate and Sayid and Sawyer, which is probably a better idea anyway. So he mutters, "Suit yourself," and shoves her at the man in the blue shirt, breaking left directly in front of Juliet's furious face and darting into the cover of the trees. 

Which seems like a really brilliant plan for about thirty seconds, until he catches his foot on a fallen branch and just barely has time to close his eyes before he's hitting the ground, actually skidding for a few inches, feeling the burning scrape of the rough ground against his face. He rolls onto his back, gasping and groping at his stinging cheek, his forehead, and then there's a pressure on his torso. His eyes flutter open and he sees Juliet, straddling him. 

He has never seen that kind of anger on a human face before. Not ever.

"And you really thought she'd be better off with your people?" she demands. 

Then her arm goes back, and there's a crack and a blossoming of pain in his jaw, and he's almost grateful when things start to swim for a second before going finally, mercifully black.

 

*

 

"The thing is, Burt, it's not that easy," Carole says. "Is it? For us, for the kids... I mean, think of everything we'd be leaving behind. Our lives are here, houses, jobs, school, friends..."

Burt nods, because yeah, he's thought about that, too. Thought about it a lot, actually. And maybe there's been times when it wouldn't have been so bad -- last year, when he and Kurt could've just packed up and gone without it aching too badly, without missing too much. Even now, really, there've been moments when Kurt just seemed so alone in the world, and Burt wondered if maybe moving on wouldn't be the best thing for them. But there was the shop to think of, the shop he'd worked so damned hard for, and Carole too, always Carole nowadays. And Kurt might've been mad at his friends, some of them, but Burt knew how much he loved them, knew that sooner or later he'd come back to them or they'd come back to him or... or whatever. And sure enough, he had, and they'd stuck up for him when he needed them the most and to leave it all behind now...

Still, though. "Doesn't seem to have slowed Ben and Blaine down much," he says.

"Doesn't seem like Ben and Blaine have ever had that much to leave behind, before," Carole retorts. "That whole story of his -- I could count on one hand the number of people who actually stuck up for either of them. Your Annie, although Blaine wasn't around back then, that Tom fellow, Eloise --"

"Yeah, well, he kinda started rushing past the specifics there, towards the end," Burt says. "There could've been more. Maybe not on that Island, but all those places they lived after that: Portland, or New Paltz, or wherever. There could've been more."

Carole just shakes her head. "There weren't, though."

"Yeah?" Burt asks, and he almost wants to sound skeptical, but he can't make himself sound anything but curious. Because that's what he is, curious. He's always known Carole was smart, but here she is putting things together in a way he never would've done, and he wants to know just what she's seeing that he's missed. "What makes you so sure?"

She just shrugs. "Because if there had been, we wouldn't have been the first ones in danger," she points out. "His people would've gone after them, the way he thinks they're coming after _us_. And he'd have his plans all worked out, instead of just... making it up as he goes along. Like he's doing now."

Burt raises his eyebrow at that. "That sounds like a vote of no confidence, Carole."

"It's not..." She sighs, presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. "I don't doubt his ability to get us out of here, if that's what we decide to do," she says. "And when I say 'we,' I mean _we_ , Burt. The four of us, together. So don't you dare go trying to make that decision for me."

It's hard not to smile, when she uses that tone of voice on him, but he does his damndest. "But," he says, trying to prompt her into continuing.

"But it's gonna take time," she says. "I mean, he even said it himself, that it wouldn't be until after the wedding at least. All the paperwork, the social security numbers and fake IDs, getting our assets gathered up and everything... And then to have to turn around and do it all for himself and Blaine, and with Blaine's leg, and --"

"And the tumor," Burt murmurs, thinking back to how worried Kurt had been that night after he and Blaine went to the play, how worried he'd been afterwards, how worried he still was. _And I know it's benign, Dad_ , he'd said, _but I just keep thinking... And just because of where it is -- I mean, all the websites say that if it's growing, then it could -- and Blaine never said it was, but he never said it wasn't either, and it took him so long to tell me in the first place and I just --_

Carole stares at him hard for a long, long time -- too long, really. And Burt thinks back about everything that was said at the Anderson's, and everything that wasn't, and he realizes why she looks so shocked. "He didn't say a damn thing about it," he says, quietly. "Did he? He didn't say a damn thing because he didn't want us to know."

 

*

 

_day 136_

 

Some days, Leslie thinks that being captured by the Others is quite possibly the best thing that could have happened to him. 

Admittedly, he's still trapped on Mystery Island, with no hope of rescue. He's still surrounded by armed jackasses -- a slightly different set of them, but still. There's still a distinct lack of television, Chinese takeout, and attractive cheerleaders in short skirts. But there's less overall danger, less cave-ins and fistfights and random polar bear attacks, more clean water and decent food, and he has a house to live in. He has students to teach again (three of them, all under the age of thirteen, but still). He even has a modicum of respect now; sure, he got off on a bad foot with Tom and Juliet, but the other Others are warming up to him. They call him Doc. Karl even brings him insects to study sometimes, and while they're all pretty commonplace species, nothing interesting, he appreciates the gesture. And while overall, it's not quite the life he's been used to... 

Well, maybe it's not so bad.

If nothing else, it beats huddling on the beach, in a tent, living off a steady diet of boar and mango.

Which is why, when Tom comes to tell him that Ethan's got work for him to do, he almost balks. Almost. 

But then he thinks of his little field trip off to the other Island, thinks of Sayid in the polar bear cage with his bruised and bloody face, thinks of The Room and the way Walt's face gets pinched and anxious every time they mention it around him, thinks of Jin and Sawyer breaking rocks in the hot sun.

And he does what he's always done. He does what's best for him.

He goes.

 

*

 

" _You_ knew," Carole says, quietly, but it's obvious that she's no more comfortable with playing Devil's advocate than Burt was. "Maybe he just assumed we all did, if you knew."

"I knew because Kurt told me, Carole," Burt points out. "And Kurt doesn't tell me a lot of things. Which Ben is damn well aware of." He shakes his head. "If he'd wanted us to know, he would've said something. Hell, he was pretty friggin' explicit about all those people he killed. Because that's what he wanted us to be thinking of. The dangerous guy. The guy who'd done anything, the guy who _could_ do anything, if he had to. But he didn't want us to know about that room, and he didn't want us to know about the damned bananas, and he didn't want us to know about this."

Carole cups her mug in both hands, pulling it a little closer but not lifting it off the table. It's not steaming anymore; lukewarm by now, and Burt's sure his is the same. He thinks, briefly, about getting up to get a refill, but there's no way he's leaving his seat right now. Not for anything. "Must be pretty serious," Carole says, quietly. "If he's keeping it this close to the chest."

"It's not cancer," Burt tells her, although it's far from reassuring and he knows that. "He's not... I mean, best of my knowledge, he's not dying or anything. But it's..." He takes his cap off, rubs one hand over his sweaty scalp. "Don't know if you were paying much attention to this," he says, "but after Blaine told that whole story, when Ben was standing up, he sort of... You could see it wasn't easy. And he was sort of rubbing at his back a little, down low. He did it before, too, when he was getting out of the car. Kind of does it a lot, actually. Like it hurts him."

Carole lets out a low whistle. "Burt," she says, softly. "I'm no doctor, but... I've been working in the radiology department for ten years now, and I've seen my fair share. That's a bad place to have a tumor, benign or not."

"Yeah," Burt says, quietly. "Yeah, that's what Kurt says."

"He doesn't want to go," Carole says, and it's not really a question, but it kind of is anyway. "Kurt, I mean. He wants to stay."

Burt just shrugs. "When's the last time you heard of Kurt turning his back on somebody who needs him? If Ben and Blaine are staying, then Kurt's gonna want to stay too. And that's just that."

Carole nods, still staring down at her mug. "And you really think Ben and Blaine are staying."

"Don't you?" Burt asks. "You said it yourself, Carole. These things take time. How much time do you really think they've got?"

She doesn't answer him, not right away, anyway. She takes a big, deep breath, and her hands tighten around the mug. "So Kurt's staying," she says, and lifts her head up, looking him square in the eye. "Guess I don't need to ask you what you want to do, do I?"

"Nah," Burt admits, and reaches across the table to cup her hands with his. "But it can't just be me and Kurt, Carole. It's gotta be all of us. So I'm asking. What do _you_ want to do with all of this?"

Carole takes another deep breath, then another, and her eyes never leave his. 

 

*

 

_day one (redux)_

 

At least there's no pregnant girl on the plane this time. Leslie is thoroughly, absurdly, grateful for that.

Not that it matters, really.

He wonders, a little bit, about Jennifer. He wonders why she was so willing to take him back, after everything. Maybe they bribed her; hell, probably they bribed her. Maybe it was a little, maybe it was a lot; either way, it doesn't matter. He's not planning on staying in her hair for very long. Get in, get the guy, get out again. That's all he needs to do. Simple enough.

_"His name's Ben Anderson," Juliet tells him, her voice sounding tight and tense the way it always does when she speaks to him. Never did forgive him for shoving that pregnant girl. Like she wouldn't have done the same, if it were her neck. "He's posing as a math teacher. Your son was in his pre-calculus class last year; since Anderson's the only person at this school remotely qualified to teach calculus, he'll have him again this year. All you have to do is find something to be unhappy about -- David's grades, the quality of the material... You were a teacher, too. I'm sure you can think of something remotely plausible."_

And he will, too. Hell, he heard every complaint in the book, back when he was in Tustin. Grades, subject matter, college applications -- once he spent an hour at parent-teacher conferences listening to some insane woman hector him about her son's peanut allergy and how he couldn't let any of the other students bring in candy bars or peanut butter sandwiches. Never mind that no food was even allowed outside the cafeteria, and definitely not in a science class. And when he'd finally managed to get that through her pointy little head, she started going on about "nut dust" contaminating their notebooks and textbooks, and what if a student had eaten peanuts at lunch and then chewed on their pencil and then passed it to her precious son -- her precious son who Leslie'd seen sitting on the school steps, choking down Apollo Nut Clusters like it was some kind of contest (which, knowing his students, it probably was) just two days previously. So, yeah. He'll think of something.

He always thinks of something, sooner or later. 

So he'll get in. Get the guy. Get the hell out again. And while he's there, maybe he'll take a little time to see what it might have been like, if he'd stayed with Jennifer all these years. Get to know the kid with the goony smile, who has to take after his old man at least a little bit -- he is taking calculus, or about to be, and even at a big school, there's not a whole lot of kids with that kind of smarts. Hell, maybe he'll even take his time; Ethan didn't seem too worried about the freighter. Then again, he was at least a little worried about the freighter, so maybe Leslie won't take his time. But maybe he'll stick around for a while, after. Enjoy himself.

After all, he's not entirely certain that Jennifer had to be bribed to take him back. Maybe she just... missed him. Maybe she mourned him, when she thought he was dead. Maybe she's glad he's coming home. It's been a long time and she never remarried. Maybe this is what he needs; not the Island, not Tustin, not that girl in Australia. Maybe this was meant to be, all along.

And admittedly, it probably isn't. He doesn't need a pregnant girl sitting across the aisle to remind him of that. It's probably just going to be another pain in his ass. And if it is, then he'll just get in, get the guy, and get out. 

Shouldn't be that hard.

 

*

 

"Obviously, we'll still have to talk to the boys," Carole says, and Burt nods solemnly. "But this... Burt, I just can't see us doing this any other way. It's not... I just can't see it."

"Damned bananas, anyhow," Burt mutters, and this time, Carole actually cracks a grin. He reaches across the table, takes her hand, smiles at her. "So," he says, stroking one rough thumb over her knuckles. "Think you can sleep now?"

Carole shakes her head, still smiling. It's amazing, the relief on her face. It reminds him again just why he knew, almost as soon as he met her, that she was the one. Never a doubt in his mind. "Nope," she says, sliding her hand away from his and pushing herself out of her chair. "But let's go to bed anyway."

"Sounds like a plan," Burt says, and stands up, and takes her hand.

They leave the mugs and the file on the kitchen table, turn the lights out, and head upstairs.

 

*

 

_day... whatever_

 

The thing is, he's always been out of his depth in this.

He's not as cocky as everyone thinks he is -- he never once thought he was going to come out on top, whatever _coming out on top_ even means in a situation like this. He never tried to benefit in any way, didn't fool himself that he was gonna get a pile of money or some great scientific discovery or love or, hell, even a peek at Juliet's admittedly pretty decent breasts. But he always thought, most of the time, that he was at least gonna survive. Maybe he'd have to do some awful things, in the end; maybe he'd wind up selling out some people that he probably wouldn't have, if the stakes had been anything other than life or death. But he did think he was going to survive.

Now, he's not so sure.

He sits on his cheap bed, in his cheap motel room -- the tv's on, some repeat of _Expose_. It's not one of Nikki's episodes; he's never seen one of Nikki's episodes, but still, the show always makes him think of her. She wasn't ever anybody he really knew, but hell, a pretty girl with an interest in his collection -- it was enough for him, enough to make her memorable. He wonders if she's still alive, if anyone he knew back on the Island is still alive. He wonders what happened to his collection. He could use it right now, maybe. The Medusa spider; he could use her now, maybe. Eight hours of false death; it might be enough.

It'd probably be just enough to land him in some morgue somewhere. If he got really lucky, maybe he'd wake up before they took out too many of his internal organs.

_"They'll come after me," he says, and it's his turn to clutch at Linus's arms; Linus just stares back at him, implacable, and Leslie has no idea where he got the idea that the guy was soft. He's about as soft as cold steel. "They'll find me. They found you, didn't they? They'll find me."_

_"Not if they're not looking," Linus says, coolly. "Which they won't be, if you do as you're told."_

_"I can't --" Leslie shakes his head, lets go of Linus, starts pacing, wringing his hands. "I wouldn't even know where to start. I never --"_

_"You did," Linus tells him. "You've been dead for a year and a half now, Leslie. Surely it's taught you something. Or has Ethan really underestimated me that much, that he'd send someone this completely incompetent to bring me back?"_

__That _stings, enough to make Leslie jerk his head in Linus's direction. "I'm not --" he splutters._

_Linus just smiles at him, and Jesus, Leslie never knew a smile could be that damned scary. "Well," he says. "For your sake, I hope not. Oh, and Dr. Arzt?" He waits until he's sure he's got Leslie's attention, then smiles a little wider. "This time, when you die? Stay dead."_

_Then he turns and walks back towards the hospital._

The thing is, Leslie wouldn't have a problem with this. He could stay dead; he could stay away from his son, from his ex, from Lima, Ohio for the rest of his damn life and never have a problem with it, never miss a thing. But it's killing himself in the first place -- that's the part he can't figure out. What's he supposed to do, crash another plane? How is a man supposed to kill himself without actually _dying_ in the process?

Then he hears the knock on the door, and he realizes that it's no longer up to him. Someone's come to help him out. Maybe it's Juliet or one of her people; hell, maybe it's Ben himself, or someone he's sent -- the man has a ridiculous number of friends. But whoever it is, they've come for him. 

And they're not real patient, because before he's even had time to assess the odds of successfully crawling out through the window (unlikely -- the thing with cheap hotels is that the windows are damn near always painted shut), they're knocking again. 

So he does the only thing he can think of to do. He answers the door.

"Yeah?"

"Dr. Arzt?" It's dim, outside, and Leslie can't really make out the man's features that well, but he's tall, and bald, and has a sharp-lined face that's edging towards the cadaverous, and he wouldn't be totally surprised to find out that he's not a man at all, but some kind of... angel of death, or something. "My name is Matthew Abaddon. I believe we share a common acquaintance."

"Yeah?" Leslie asks again, because hell, if he's gonna die anyway, no sense wasting time being polite. "Who's that?"

The man doesn't take a step forward, doesn't take a step back. He just stands there, tall and thin and perfectly composed, and honestly, if he's not an assassin, someone somewhere screwed something up. Because he damn well should be. "Benjamin Linus."

Leslie nods, slowly, jams his hands in his pockets because he's pretty sure they're gonna start shaking and he's not about to let this man see him like that. "So you _are_ here to kill me," he says.

It's possible that the man smiles; it's too dim for Leslie to really be sure, but it's possible. "No," the man replies. "No, Dr. Arzt, I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to save your life."

"Oh." Leslie thinks about it for a second, asks himself how long he's going to keep acting like he could possibly survive this, and then shrugs and decides that he can keep the charade up for a little longer, anyway. "Well. In that case, come in."


	19. Furt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finn explains his decision with some help from Tobey Maguire and Marvel Comics (and Kurt), and Ben and Blaine do a few things that they have never done before

_now_

 

Blaine fidgets on the sofa, adjusts his suit coat, smooths down his trousers, drums his hands against his uninjured thigh, glances back over his shoulder in the general direction of his father's room. 

"Dad?" he calls. 

"In a second," his father replies, voice a little quiet, a little distant. Preoccupied.

Blaine sighs, reaches up to make sure his collar hasn't flipped up since the last time he checked it (it hasn't), runs his hands over his hair to make sure it's in place (it is). "Dad, we're going to be late!"

"I said just a second, Blaine!"

Blaine sighs again.

It's not just that he hasn't really been out of the house for a week (although he hasn't, really, apart from trips out to see his physical therapist, which aren't exactly fun.) It's just... He's never been to a wedding before, is the thing, and although Kurt's told him time and time again that the most important thing is that he shows up at all... He really, really doesn't want to be late.

"Dad, just let me do it for you," he calls out, his voice sounding a little more pleading, a little less nonchalant, than he wants it to. But maybe that's for the best, because after a few seconds, his father finally emerges from his bedroom, in his nice suit, with his nice new tie hanging loosely around his neck. 

"Is this the part where I remind you that I spent most of my life on a tropical island in the South Pacific?" his dad asks, crouching obediently by the sofa. "One, I might add, that didn't have any particular dress code."

Blaine tsks at him a little bit, reaching out to adjust the tie, pulling the wide end down. His dad never pulls the wide end down far enough; that's half the problem. "We've been back on the mainland for ten years, Dad," he points out. "Plenty of time to learn how to tie a tie."

His father rolls his eyes as Blaine leans in. _Cross the wide end in front, then wrap it around and behind..._ "Yes," he says, dryly, holding still and letting Blaine work. "Because it's not like I've had any other priorities."

"Don't be that way," Blaine scolds, and wraps the wide end around again, bringing it up to finish off the last loop. "Anyway, it's easy. You could learn it in like, ten minutes. If you wanted to."

"Well, that's just the thing, Blaine," his father says, mildly; Blaine finishes the knot and tightens it carefully, leaving it a little looser than he would if it was for himself. His dad tends to get cranky when his ties are too tight. "Apparently I can't." But he smiles as Blaine pulls back, studying him critically. "I guess you're just smarter than me."

Blaine reaches up and pats his dad's freshly-shaven cheek. "Well," he says. "At least you look good. And that's the important thing."

His father raises an eyebrow at him. "You'll be the brains, and I'll be the beauty?" he asks.

Blaine's grin widens. "Something like that," he says. His grin only falters a little bit as his dad rocks back on his heels, reaching out for the arm of the sofa and using it to very, very carefully lever himself up to standing. Blaine's not totally sure, but it seems like every time, it's a little bit harder for his dad to push himself back up to his feet again. He thinks that, more than anything, that's why he changed his mind. Because it's getting harder for his dad. 

But he doesn't say anything about it, just stands up, most of his weight on his good leg, and reaches out for his crutches. His dad passes them over, watching him intently, and doesn't interfere. "Okay," Blaine says, getting himself settled and stable on his crutches. "Are we ready?"

"Yes," his father says, quietly. "Yes, I think so."

 

*

 

_then_

 

Finn Hudson knocks on Ben's door a little bit after eleven am on Saturday morning. It isn't shocking, not exactly, but it does leave Ben a little nonplussed. Particularly when he looks past Finn's shoulder and realizes that Kurt is nowhere in sight.

"I... uh... I kind of asked Kurt to stay home," Finn says, sheepishly. "I mean, he wanted to come, and I actually kind of felt bad asking him to stay and everything, because he really did want to, but I... um... I dunno, it's just... It seemed important, I guess. That it was just me, and not... you know. That I'm doing this for me, and not, like, just going along with whatever he says. Because I wouldn't do that. I mean, I guess sometimes I kind of would, if it's, like, clothes or stuff, but... this is, like, important, and I just... It's just really important that I... um, that I do this. For me."

"Oh," Ben says, bemused. Then, remembering his manners, he adds, "Won't you come in."

Finn shuffles into the house, pausing just inside the door to set down the plastic grocery bag he's carrying and kick off his sneakers. Ben glances over at his son, once again ensconced on the couch -- he's wearing his own Dalton Warblers sweatshirt, but the snap-up pants are still Finn's; they've been awfully convenient when it's time for bandage changes, and at the moment, convenience trumps nearly everything else. "Um," Blaine says, openly staring as Finn shrugs off his jacket. "Hi. Finn."

"Hey, Blaine," Finn says, and picks up his bag again. "I. Um. My girlfriend, Rachel, she... She made these, for you." He reaches into the bag and holds out a plastic container. "They're 'Get Well' cookies? She said that they were kind of the same as her 'I'm Sorry' cookies, only with more flaxseed oil. So they're... you know. Healthier."

"Great," Blaine manages, after a few seconds. He reaches out, and Finn passes the cookies over into his hands. "Thanks, Finn. And... you know, if you could thank your girlfriend for me, that would --"

"Oh, yeah," Finn says, quickly. "Yeah, no, sure. Totally."

"Thanks," Blaine says again. There is a long, incredibly awkward pause, and then Blaine tips his head to the side and asks, "So... is that... Is that what you needed to do? Just... the cookies?"

"No," Finn says. "Well, I mean, yes and then no? Because, I mean, obviously, Rachel asked me to bring the cookies, so... Um... But then I was also... See Kurt and I were talking, last night, about... about everything, and I kind of started to wonder if... um... See, the thing is, I..." Finn gnaws on his lip for a second, shifts his plastic bag from one hand to the other. "Did you guys... Did you guys ever watch the... um... Did you ever watch the _Spider-Man_ movies?"

Ben looks at his son, bewildered, and Blaine stares back at him, and for several long seconds, neither of them can say anything at all. 

"It's..." Blaine says, eyebrows still drawn together. "It's been a while." His voice goes up at the end, almost like it's a question. Ben supposes that it probably is.

"Okay," Finn says, and holds up the bag, shaking it. The plastic is thin enough that Ben can see the outline of two DVD cases through it. It's enough to let him know where this is going, but the _why_ of it all continues to elude him. "Okay, cool, because I have them, so we can... You know. We can refresh your memory."

Blaine just blinks at him. "And this is... This is why you're here," he says, voice still questioning. "Without Kurt. To remind me of Spiderman."

Finn nods eagerly. "Yeah," he says, sounding peculiarly thrilled by that. "Yeah, exactly. See, I knew you'd get it."

"I..." Blaine looks at his father, his face almost cartoonishly bewildered. All Ben can do is sigh.

"Have a seat, Finn," he says, gesturing at the couch. "I'll get you something to drink."

 

*

 

_now_

 

Kurt offered them seats in the very front, with his aunt and Finn's grandparents, but Blaine insisted on the back row. Mostly because it's awkward, with the crutches, and he knows how much running around the New Directions are going to be doing in their first song ("the processional," Kurt calls it), and he doesn't want to trip anyone. But also because... Just because. 

Because some of the Glee kids (no one he knows, just some of them) were hanging around outside the chapel before he entered, and they looked at him, and no one did more than wave at him or smile, but still, it was weird. Because Mr. Schuester was glancing over his shoulder at the doors as Blaine and his father were ushered to their seats, and the moment he saw them, he stood up, made his way over to where they were sitting, gave Blaine's father an "It's so good to see you again," and gave Blaine an "I'm glad to finally meet you under... under better circumstances." Because as Mr. Schuester talked, Blaine looked past him and saw even more people, people he didn't know and couldn't place, watching them curiously.

Because Blaine saw his own picture in the Saturday paper -- just a little one, last year's yearbook photo with his Dalton blazer on and his hair slicked down and the sort of tense smile he always had back then -- next to an article about the shooting at McKinley. It wasn't on the front page, at least, but it wasn't on the last, either -- it was on the third, underneath the headline _New Details Emerge About McKinley High Shooting_ , captioned _Blaine Anderson, 16, was injured while trying to disarm the gunman_. And while it _was_ a small picture, and at least it wasn't on the front page (or worse, on the Channel 8 news), it's still attention, and not the right kind. He hasn't been out of the house a whole lot since the shooting -- just for physical therapy, really -- but he can still see the effect that it's had. People look at him: when his dad helps him out of the car, when they make their way into the hospital, even when he's in the PT room going through another endless, painful set of lunges. They notice him, now. They _see_.

And maybe it's not that much different from the Warblers, but then again, it kind of is. Because yes, he's been up front and at center, out where people could see him. But at the same time, there were still the Warblers behind him, all in their identical blazers and ties and khakis, and he always knew that if he wanted to, he could step back into the crowd on the risers, and blend in, and become invisible.

He can't do that now, and it scares him. It makes him want to hide his face in his father's shoulder; it makes him want to run away and never come back. It makes him want to leave -- not just the church, but the city, the state. Maybe even the country, if it comes to that. He wants to go somewhere where no one knows who he is, somewhere where he's invisible. Somewhere where he's safe.

But then someone's hissing at him from the chapel doors, and when he looks back, he sees Kurt, beaming at him. And just like that, his face lightens -- he doesn't even think about it, it just happens, like if Kurt's smiling then he has to smile too. Like he doesn't even really know how to do otherwise. And then Finn is leaning over Kurt's shoulder, and he waves, and Blaine waves back. And he doesn't want to run anymore, not really. He wants to stay. He really does.

It's just... 

It's so strange, actually being here. This is the hall he helped Kurt pick out (Unitarian Universalist, because they figured it'd either make everyone happy or make them all mad, but either way, everyone would feel the same about it). These are the flowers they decided on, together. And when the music starts, and the members of New Directions start dancing their way down the aisles, Blaine realizes that even if Kurt wasn't able to get all the girls into the same dress, they're all at least wearing the same color, and what's most amazing is that it flatters all of them. And Kurt did that. Somehow, he did that. 

(And if it makes Blaine think about the McKinley home ec room, and the wall of fabric, and one particular bolt of red calico sticking out a little further than the rest, if it makes him remember a different shade of red, one that stained his hands and stained the tiles and stained Kurt's jeans and Santana's white Nikes, if it makes him _remember_ \--)

It's only for a moment, and then Kurt's friend Mercedes is patting him fondly on the cheek before Kurt starts twirling her up the aisle, and then Santana hesitates for just a second and gives him the smallest of smiles before chasing after the boy with the mohawk, and it's not like he forgets again, because he doesn't. Because he can't. But at the same time, there's something... There's something different. Something he's never really felt before, and doesn't have a name for.

But he likes it. He thinks.

Then Burt appears, dancing his way up the aisle in the most amazingly ridiculous manner ever. And Carole follows after, in a dress that's not quite the one he and Kurt would have chosen, but is as close as they could come in such a limited timeframe, and she's so beautiful -- no glitter, no rhinestones, no shiny embroidery, just her. And then they're together at the pulpit, with Kurt and Finn on either side of them, and the members of Kurt's glee club lined up on the steps, and for some reason, Blaine is blinking back tears before the pastor even says a word. He's not entirely sure just why. It's just... he's never seen anything like this before. And he doesn't even know what it is, not really, but whatever it is, it takes his breath away.

The pastor makes a joke about young wedding planners and people falling asleep, and people laugh. Even Blaine's father chuckles, but Blaine can't; he's too busy trying not to cry. And then the pastor says something else, says that Burt and Carole are going to explain why everyone's here, and when Burt turns to face the audience, his eyes focus on Ben and Blaine, safely hidden in the back, and Blaine's breath catches in his throat, because he's not totally sure what Burt's going to say and he's a little scared of it. 

"So, I don't know if any of you guys heard about this," Burt says, "but... uh... But we've had kind of a rough week, here, actually. With Kurt, and what happened at the school, and everything... Well. Like I said, it's been a little rough."

There's a pause, and Blaine sees his father reach for something in his inside jacket pocket; he's not surprised when it turns out to be a small packet of tissues. His father holds it out, and he takes it, and when his father leaves his hand outstretched, Blaine takes that too, squeezing tightly. 

(it always helps, holding his father's hand.)

"The thing is," Burt says, and reaches out, and Carole wraps both her small hands around one of his, "when you think about starting a new family, you don't always think about how hard it's going to be. You think about the joy, and the celebration, but you never think about all the things you're gonna go through after that, and whether you're gonna be able to trust this person, and whether they're gonna be able to carry you through. And... And the way it worked out, with us, I don't have to wonder anymore. I know.

"I have struggled more in this last week than I have..." He shakes his head, and Blaine fumbles one of the tissues out of the packet, because that's his fault; he's made them struggle, and it just feels -- "More than I have for a long time. And I have had so many questions and so many doubts, and every single time I thought that I just... Every time I thought I couldn't, I looked to Carole, and I realized that I could. Because she was with me.

"You are..." He turns to face her, and Blaine wipes at his eyes, still clinging tightly to his father's hand, because even underneath the guilt, there's still that _feeling_. Like there's more than just dread, this time, more than just fear and mistrust. That there's something else, and maybe it's not there because of him, but it's there _for_ him. If he wants it to be. "You are everything, Carole. You are so smart, and so strong, and so... so loving, and you just... You are everything, Carole, and I will love you until the day I die."

There's a little pause, and Blaine looks over at his father, sees him smiling, just a little bit. And that something else that Blaine is feeling, that he's been feeling since Kurt smiled and Finn waved and Mercedes patted him on the cheek -- It's in his father's smile, somehow. And Blaine still doesn't really have a name for it, but when he scoots closer to his father, leans his head on his father's shoulder and feels his father's arm settling around him, it's there, right there, close enough that he can feel the warmth of it.

(sometimes he thinks that was the hardest thing -- when he was with tom and his father was in that room, when his father was gone. blaine could see him, he could be with him, but he couldn't touch him.)

(he couldn't hold his father's hand.) 

"When I met Burt," Carole says, smiling up at him, still holding one of his big hands with both of hers. "I remember a few of my co-workers told me to be careful, because I wasn't just getting a man, I was getting... Getting his family, too. And I remember thinking _Good_ , because that was exactly what I wanted." She turns her head, just for a second, and smiles at Ben and Blaine all the way in the back row, and Blaine thinks, _Oh_. "And it still is. And I am so proud to be a part of this family."

_Family._ Blaine repeats the word in his head, over and over again. _Family. Family. Family._

Carole lets go of Burt's hand with one of hers, reaches out for Finn's; he reaches back, holds on tightly. "Finn, you are... You really are a man, now, and you have been so... wonderful, through all of this, and such a good brother to Kurt. And Kurt --" Burt and Finn reach out simultaneously, the four of them linking up like a chain, and Blaine's chest is so tight, watching them, the lump in his throat is just so big. _Family._ "You could not be any braver or more compassionate, and I am so lucky to get to call you my son, and I am so lucky to get to spend the rest of my life with the man who taught you how to be that compassionate, to get to love someone with... with such a big, warm, strong heart. I am just so... I am so lucky that you are my family. You are exactly what I wanted, and I am just so... so grateful. To have all of you in my life."

She looks up again, at Ben and Blaine, and then Finn looks over too, and then if anyone else does Blaine can't see it, because he tucks his head into his father's shoulder, overwhelmed. Because this is what he's feeling; he gets it now, and it's so -- He can't understand it, how this could be for him, how he could have this. 

So he hides his face until the priest tries to read the vows, and Burt and Carole both interrupt him, and then he glances up just in time to see them kissing, and they look so happy, and then everyone's standing up and cheering, but his dad stays sitting right next to him, one arm wrapped around him, the other patting at his thigh in a sort of approximation of applause.

And Blaine claps too, as hard as he can, the packet of Kleenex dropping to the floor at his feet even though he's vaguely aware that he's still crying.

_Family_ , he thinks again, for no real reason, and when he sees Kurt looking at him, he keeps his head up and looks right back.

(and when he finally got to see his father again, when his father had eaten all of the banana and blaine had praised him and his father had actually smiled -- his lips so dry and cracked that they bled, a little, when he stretched them upwards -- blaine dropped the banana peel to the floor and reached out and clung to his father's hand with both of his own.)

(and his father squeezed his hand, and kept smiling.)

(and it didn't matter where they were, because they were together, and blaine could hold his father's hand again, and he knew that he was home.)

 

*

 

_then_

 

Kurt shows up at the end of the first movie, while Peter and Mary Jane are still in the cemetary, talking. "Mr. Anderson," he says, almost as soon as the door is opened. "Hi. I was wondering if..."

"Kurt!" Blaine calls happily, from the couch. Ben turns and sees his son peering eagerly at the door, his face alight, even as Finn slouches into himself. "Finn said you weren't coming."

"Well," Kurt says, lightly; Ben steps out of the way without a word, and Kurt slips into the house. "I don't think Finn realizes just how much I like Spiderman. Besides, I heard that he brought cookies, so."

Blaine holds up the plastic container, shakes it in what might possibly be some kind of invitation; Ben can't help but notice that it's still mostly full. "They have flaxseed oil," Blaine says, because apparently that's as close as he can come to a compliment. "It's... It's healthy."

"I'll bet it is," Kurt says, sliding out of his loafers and padding over to the sofa. Finn slinks down the cushions without being asked, leaving Kurt with enough room to slip in between them, a little closer to Blaine than he is to Finn. Almost as soon as he's settled, Blaine is shifting closer. 

"I didn't think you would come," Blaine says again, a little more subdued, but still happy in a way that he usually isn't, and Ben is torn between a sort of pleased recognition and then a sort of alarm as well. He prides himself on his ability to prepare for all outcomes, but this... He has no idea how to deal with this. He supposes that, to a certain extent, he's meant to just let it happen.

Kurt just shrugs, his shoulder brushing against Blaine's. "Well," he says again. "I mean, I wasn't going to, because I really don't want to steal Finn's thunder, or anything, and it was his idea. But I guess..." He tears his eyes away from Blaine and glances at Finn, still huddled in on himself at the end of the couch. "I guess it's just such a good idea that I couldn't resist, in the end."

Finn doesn't say anything to that, but he straightens up a little in his seat, and while Ben still isn't ready for any of this, he's a little comforted to remember just how kind Kurt can be. Not, of course, that he can say that out loud. So he slips into the kitchen instead -- there's Diet Coke in the fridge, has been since the first time Kurt visited them. And if nothing else, it'll be something for Kurt to hold in his hands when he's nervous. 

Not that he has a particular reason to believe that Kurt's going to be nervous, but. Well. 

When he comes back out, Kurt and Blaine are talking in low voices. "I don't understand," Blaine murmurs. "How is this a metaphor?"

The tips of Finn's ears are bright red; his arms are folded, and Ben can't help but feel a little bad for him. Whatever the boys are talking about, it's obviously made him defensive again. "You'll see," Kurt says. "Just remember. You're Peter Parker, and I'm Mary Jane."

"You're Mary Jane?" Blaine repeats, bewildered. "But Kurt, you're not..."

Kurt shrugs. "It's not the most literally accurate of metaphors," he admits. "But I think I'm warming up to it. And admittedly, I would probably look good as a redhead."

Blaine studies him for a second, until Ben reaches over the back of the couch and passes Kurt his drink. Then he looks up at his father, tilts his head to the side, and grins. "So, if I'm Peter Parker," he says, something a little mischievous in his eyes, "would that make my dad Aunt May?"

"Watch it," Ben says, chiding, but there's no heat behind it, and he's still smiling a little bit too as he returns to his seat. 

It doesn't last long. 

They restart the movie -- Peter leaves Mary Jane in the cemetary, and Ben thinks about what Kurt said, _You're Peter Parker and I'm Mary Jane_ , and he glances over at Blaine. His eyebrows are drawn together again, and there's something... something almost hurt in his expression. "Kurt," he says, wounded, and Kurt shakes his head, shushing him.

"We have to watch the second movie," he says. "It all hinges on the second movie."

Finn watches the two of them as the credits start to roll; he waits until Blaine nods and sinks back into the couch cushions, leaning into Kurt a little bit more. Then and only then does he go to change the DVD.

 

*

 

_now_

 

They're still in the back for the reception, still a little hidden, and Blaine almost wishes he hadn't insisted quite so hard that Kurt keep them out of sight, but it doesn't really matter. Once the formal dinner is over and the dancing has started, people start drifting over to them -- first the boy in the wheelchair ( _Mr. Abrams_ , his dad calls him, but he tells Blaine that his name is Artie), then the blonde girl who'd twirled ribbons with Santana during Kurt's processional (she introduces herself as Brittany S. Pierce, then knocks on Blaine's hair and asks him if it's plastic), then a tall boy named Mike and a girl named Tina. They're not really there for Blaine; they're there for his dad, who looks simultaneously baffled and pleased in a way that makes something warm spread all through Blaine's chest. His dad's always been a little self-conscious as a teacher; it's just good to see his students flock to him, tell him that he's missed, that they can't wait until he's back, that they worked out a secret handshake while he was gone and they need him to see it right now. It's just... It's good.

And he's leaning back in his chair, watching his father obediently clap his hands, cross his arms, pat his elbows, and then push his glasses up his nose ("Not bad," Artie tells him, "but you gotta get a little more funk into it,") when he feels a hand on his shoulder, looks up, and sees Mercedes smiling at him. 

"Hey," he says, grinning up at her. "You were... You guys were great up there. All of you. Really, I... I wish I could have been up there with you." Because he does, kind of -- he's been singing a little bit, mostly when he and Kurt were working out the set list for the reception (Kurt was having a hard time thinking of any waltzes; Blaine knows dozens), but it's not the same. He misses it, not just the singing but the dancing, too, and the being part of a group, and... All of it. He misses all of it.

"You still could," Mercedes says, holding out her hand. "If you wanted."

Blaine glances up at the stage, where Finn's girlfriend is currently belting out a stunning rendition of "My Heart Will Go On," and even though part of him is tempted, there's a sudden coldness in the pit of his stomach. "I..." he says, palms sweating, and quickly shakes his head. "No, I couldn't... Kurt spent ages on the set list; I wouldn't want to mess it up, he..."

"He wouldn't mind," Mercedes says, but when Blaine doesn't answer, she sighs. "Fine," she says. "But you will dance with me. No arguing."

"But I --" Blaine glances down at his leg, and then back up at her.

Artie makes a disdainful noise behind his back. "Please," he says. "Like you need two legs to dance."

"Coach Sylvester wanted us to do an entire routine on our hands once," Brittany chimes in. "But everyone got a headrush like thirty seconds in, and we all fainted. The nurse thought I had a concussion, but Coach Sylvester told her that was just how I always talk."

Blaine's father raises his eyebrow, but says nothing.

Mercedes clears her throat; when Blaine looks back at her, she crooks her fingers in a beckoning gesture. "Look," she says, glancing over her shoulder at the dance floor. Finn's holding his mom's hands and sort of swaying back and forth -- it's weird how he manages to make even that look awkward, but somehow he does. "You can't be any worse than that. So. Come on. No excuses, and no arguing."

"I..." Blaine glances down at his injured leg one more time, then takes a deep breath and reaches out for Mercedes's hand. "Okay," he says. "Um. Help me up?"

They make their slow, unsteady way towards the dance floor, Blaine trying not to lean too heavily on Mercedes and utterly failing; fortunately for the both of them, she's kind of ridiculously strong. Even so, the song is over by the time they're actually in front of the stage, and there's an awkward moment where they just stand there, looking at each other. But then the band strikes up another tune (a country waltz, complete with slide guitar intro), and Blaine rests his hands on Mercedes's shoulders; she grips his waist, holding him steady, and they sway together, gently. It's... It's nice, in a way Blaine wasn't expecting, and he can't help the smile that breaks across his face, wide and unfamiliar and good.

Mercedes smiles back at him. "I wanted to thank you," she says, leaning in a little, raising her voice so she can be heard over the music. "Not just for... Well, you know, but for... For everything, I guess."

Blaine flushes, ducks his head; he knows what she's getting at, or he thinks he does, and he's not totally sure he should be praised for it. After all, nothing would have happened to Kurt at all if he hadn't --

"Look, just hear me out," she says, and her voice is just commanding enough that Blaine has to look at her. "I don't think you know... I mean, obviously you knew a little bit, or you wouldn't have been there for Kurt the way you were, but... He was struggling. Really struggling. And he had been for a long time. Way before you met him. And then there you were, and then there he was. Smiling again. Like he's supposed to. I don't know what you did, but... you helped him. You really did."

"And then I almost got him killed," Blaine murmurs, turning away to glance up at the stage, where Santana is crooning into the microphone, her eyes on him the entire time. 

_Only you know how much I have lost_ , she sings, and Blaine wonders why, out of all the waltzes he sang for Kurt, Kurt had to choose this one.

"Karofsky almost got him killed," Mercedes says, squeezing his sides a little bit. "You saved him. That's what you did. And don't you dare feel bad about it, or I will let you fall right here in the middle of this dance floor."

"I..." Blaine looks up again, just in time to see his father sweeping onto the dance floor with Carole, and that's why Kurt chose this song, he realizes. Because Blaine mentioned that it was his father's favorite, and Kurt remembered, because Kurt always remembers things like that. And because Kurt thinks that Blaine saved him, too, and so he does these things for him, and even if Blaine doesn't always think he deserves them, well. It doesn't help him to argue, it just upsets Kurt even more, and so he's learning to be grateful. Or, at least, he's trying. 

"Okay," he says, again, and smiles at Mercedes. "I'll try."

She squeezes his sides a little, playfully. "You'd better do more than try," she tells him, reaching up with one hand to press her finger against his nose, and she laughs, and she doesn't drop him.

And he doesn't argue anymore, just lets her support him, and watches his father waltz across the floor with Carole, and lets the feeling of _family_ wash over him again.

 

*

 

_then_

 

Ben retreats to the kitchen shortly before the end of the second movie; he is somewhat less than surprised when Finn joins him only minutes later, standing awkwardly in the doorway and watching him with wide, fearful eyes. Ben has to wonder what Finn would have done if Kurt hadn't shown up, how he would have handled Blaine then. He's relatively certain that _With great power comes great responsibility_ would have been interestingly mangled, and he can't help but be simultaneously relieved and disappointed that that won't be necessary.

Kurt's voice drifts out from the living room, quiet but intense. "You saved my life, Blaine."

"But I -- I wouldn't have had to if I hadn't --"

Finn's voice, soft as it is, drowns out Blaine's stammering. "Can I ask you something?" When Ben glances up from his tea, he sees Finn creeping a little further into the kitchen, hands stuffed into his pockets. "Were you in love? You and Kurt's mom, I mean," he adds, after a second. "Were you in love with her?"

It's nothing Ben hasn't asked himself a thousand times, but that doesn't mean it's anything he can really answer. "We were very young, Finn," he explains, swirling the strainer in his mug, watching the water inside darken. "Younger than you boys are now. I don't think we were... I don't think we were ready for that sort of thing. Not at that age."

Finn blinks at him, looking perplexed. "Wait, how old were you?" he asks. "You never said, before."

"Didn't I?" Ben shrugs, swirls the strainer a little more. "I was twelve. When my father... when he sent me to live with the Hostiles."

It hits Finn harder than he would have expected; the boy goes a little pale, mutters "Jesus," under his breath, and shuffles over to the table to sink into a chair like he's not sure how much longer he can hold up his own weight. 

"I just don't want you to get hurt," Blaine says, his voice a little plaintive. "Or your family -- I don't want them to --"

"I don't want them to either," Kurt replies, somehow almost cheerful. "Which is why I'm asking you to --"

"She looked for you, you know," Finn says, abruptly; Ben considers this, then quietly takes the strainer out of his mug, sets it on the saucer, and folds his hands, listening. "Kurt's mom. See, I heard Burt and my mom talking, this morning, and Burt was saying how she told him once that she went looking for you, once you disappeared. And he was saying that he guesses we finally found you. But I don't think that's true." He bites his lip, stares down at the table, then meets Ben's eyes squarely. "I think you found us."

Ben tips his head to the side, studying Finn -- he's surprisingly difficult to read. Admittedly, he does seem to function in a slightly different way than other people do; not unintelligent, just... a different kind of intelligence, perhaps. "I'm not sure I follow," Ben admits.

Finn takes a deep breath. "Look, I don't know if anyone told you, but this Karofsky thing..." He shakes his head. "It started way back, only no one really paid attention. I mean, Miss Pillsbury didn't, Mr. Schue didn't... I didn't, not really. And I think Burt would've, if he'd known, but Kurt doesn't really talk about these things, so he didn't -- But Kurt talks to Blaine. And Blaine talks to you. And you... You paid attention. And you helped him. You really did. And I don't even know if you knew who he was."

"That's --" Ben waves it off, shaking his head. "I can't take credit for that. If Kurt hadn't gone to Dalton, if Coach Sylvester hadn't told me that he was --"

"But that's just it," Finn says, leaning in. "Coach Sylvester knew, but she didn't do anything. _You_ did. And, yeah, Kurt went to Dalton, but I don't think -- I think Blaine had to ask him. About what was happening. About Karofsky. And just... you guys... You really helped him. And I just think that you still could. But you have to be here, and we have to be here, or it won't work. Like Spiderman and M.J., you know?"

Ben studies Finn's earnest, innocent face a little bit longer, then sighs, sinks back in his chair, and watches steam rise from his mug.

"We're not the only ones in danger, you know," Kurt says, his voice just barely audible. "And I... I know you don't want to see me get hurt, Blaine. I just... I want to know why you think it'd be any easier for me if anything happened to you."

Ben swallows hard. _She looked for you_ , he thinks. Kurt is a good deal like his mother, after all. But he's also a good deal like his father; he has the same impulsiveness, the same tenacity. And he's older than Annie was -- he has a car, and access to a great many things that she never had. He might very well succeed where she had failed, given the opportunity.

"I still have to talk to your parents," Ben reminds Finn, a little sternly. "And in the end, it's... I told Blaine it would be his choice, and I'm going to keep that promise."

Finn nods solemnly, but he's smiling, just a little bit. "I wouldn't worry about my parents," he says. "I think they... And, I mean, I know I don't know Blaine all that well, but I also know... You would have stayed for her, if you could. Kurt's mom, I mean. You would have stayed for her, so."

There is nothing Ben can say to that; he watches the steam rise from his tea, and he hears Kurt's voice, soft and a little choked with tears, saying "Please, Blaine," and he doesn't hear Blaine's answer, but he supposes it doesn't really matter.

_Were you in love?_ Finn asked. And, truthfully, he doesn't think he was. He was very fond of Annie, and she was fond of him, and it could have been a certain, childish kind of love. But Blaine and Kurt are older. They feel things differently. It could be... 

It very well could be.

He sighs and takes a sip of his tea. "Well," he says, quietly. "Out of curiosity, Finn, have you ever even _held_ a gun?"

 

*

 

_now_

 

He sits in his bed, propped up on a stack of pillows, and watches Kurt fuss with the sheets on the air mattress by the dresser, getting them just so. "You really don't have to --" he says, and Kurt waves his hand dismissively.

"We've been over this, Blaine," he says, with a sigh. "You're not sleeping on the floor. Your _father_ is not sleeping on the floor. And Finn has to stay on the pull-out couch in the living room, because he snores and I'm not subjecting either of you to that." He shrugs, the faintest of smiles playing across his face. "And I'm not subjecting myself to it, either. Trust me. I just organized a very successful wedding, _and_ a small-scale honeymoon for the newleyweds. I think I can handle a sleepover."

Blaine smiles at him; he can't help it. There's just... having Kurt there, there's something about it that makes him feel... He's not totally sure what, yet. It's a little like that _family_ feeling from the wedding, that _home_ feeling, but a little different, too. A little nervous and fizzy and excited, but still sort of safe. "Kurt?" he asks, and waits for Kurt to finish straightening his pillow and actually look at him before he meets Kurt's eyes and says "Thank you."

Kurt tilts his head to the side, curiously, watching Blaine like he doesn't quite understand. "Thank you for what?" he asks.

Blaine just shrugs. "Everything."

The little shocked, pleased expression on Kurt's face is something Blaine wants to see forever. Then it settles into a smile, something soft and contemplative, and Kurt pushes himself up off the floor, crosses over to Blaine's bed, sits down next to him. "You're welcome," he says, quietly, and pats Blaine's hand. When he goes to pull away again, Blaine catches his fingers and holds on.

"Just..." he whispers, and doesn't look at Kurt, but doesn't let go of him, either. "Just for a second."

"Okay," Kurt says, quietly, and settles in a little closer, close enough that if he wanted to, Blaine could rest his head on Kurt's shoulder. He feels like that's maybe too much for right now, so he doesn't, but it's nice to know that he could. If he wanted to. "Blaine?" Kurt asks.

"Yeah?"

Kurt sighs and squeezes his hand. "I'm really glad you're staying. I know that you're scared, and I know it's hard, and I just -- I'm really glad that you decided to do this. To stay."

Blaine nods, biting his lip. "Yeah," he says again. "Yeah, I am too."

And the thing is, he almost feels as though he shouldn't want it to be true, because he still thinks it's selfish and he still thinks that it could -- But he is glad, even if he shouldn't be. Here, in this moment, he is so, so glad.

Kurt shifts even closer and rests his head on Blaine's shoulder, and Blaine swallows hard, feeling that fizzy nervousness growing in his stomach. "I have to brush my teeth," Kurt murmurs, snuggling in a little bit. "And I've got my skincare routine. Don't let me forget it."

"I won't," Blaine promises, and tips his head down so that his temple is pressed against the softness of Kurt's hair, and closes his eyes.

Needless to say, he doesn't remind Kurt to go brush his teeth.


	20. The End is the Beginning (is the End)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's this dream. Every time I have it, I know that something's going to happen. Something bad.

_The Sahara Desert_

He comes out of the darkness gasping, staring up at the sky with his mouth working like a landed fish. For just a moment, the world is nothing more than a collection of images, brief flashes of sensation: the sky is blue, the sun is bright, the air is dry and hot and burns his lungs and he doesn't know where he is. For a moment -- 

But only for a moment.

He rolls to his side, pushing himself up to his knees, and almost immediately his stomach is protesting the gesture; he turns and hacks up a little fluid -- not much (he hasn't exactly had time for three solid meals and a few healthy snacks today), but enough that his stomach quiets down. Of course, he supposes that doesn't mean much when the taste of it is still in his mouth and there's nothing around him but sand, no water to wash that out and he wonders just how long it's going to take him to reach some kind of civilization. 

The sound of hoofbeats, and Ethan smiles, pushes Edgar Halliwax's old jacket off his shoulders and pushes up to his feet.

This is going to be easier than he thought.

 

*

 

It's the sound of it that wakes Kurt up.

At first, he's not sure where he is -- he's on a bed, at least, but it isn't his. The blankets aren't his, he doesn't know where his pillows are, and there's something... Some sound, shaky and rough, like someone's... Like someone's breathing. Like Blaine's breathing. But it's too loud and it's too fast, and it --

Kurt pushes himself up, quickly, looks behind to see Blaine lying on his back, eyes tight shut. He's not thrashing or kicking, just... twitching a little, but he's breathing fast and hard and shaky like he's terrified.

_It's this dream. Every time I have it, I know that something's going to happen. Something bad._

"Blaine," Kurt hisses, reaching out to shake Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine, wake up."

Blaine's head lolls as Kurt shakes him again, lips parting a little as his breathing gets even faster. "You said..." he mutters, tears leaking out from the corners of his eyes. "Said it was him... you _said_... oh God. Oh God."

Blaine whimpers, and Kurt leans in closer, shaking him again, reaching up to lightly slap at his cheeks. "Blaine," he says. "Blaine, please --"

"Dad," Blaine whispers, his whole body starting to tremble. "Dad, Dad, no, Dad, please -- _please_ \--"

He gasps, and for a second, Kurt thinks he's going to wake up, but then he just keeps gasping for air, his breath too loud, too high-pitched and wheezing, too short and too shallow, and Kurt does the only thing he can think of. "Mr. Anderson!" he shouts. "Mr. Anderson, please! Mr. Anderson!"

Blaine keeps hyperventilating, one hand coming up to clutch at his chest, face turning red, and Kurt grabs his shoulders but then doesn't know what to do, so he just holds on, babbling, "No, you're okay, you're okay, please, please be okay, please, please --" and calls out "Mr. Anderson!" again and hears the footsteps pounding towards Blaine's room and says "You're okay, you're okay, he's coming --"

Then the door bursts open, and Kurt looks up just in time to see Blaine's dad hurrying towards the bed. His eyes focus on Kurt for just a second, probably just long enough to see Kurt's tear-stained face and trembling lips, then settle on Blaine, still clutching at his chest and wheezing even louder than before. "He was asleep," Kurt says, the words running together, tumbling over one another in their haste to get out of him. "He was asleep, and then he started talking, and I tried to wake him up, I really did, but then he couldn't breathe and I --"

"Blaine," Blaine's father says, sinking onto the bed and reaching out, and Kurt snatches his hands away from Blaine's shoulders so Mr. Anderson can get to him, cupping Blaine's cheek with one hand and trying to pry Blaine's grasping fingers away from his chest with the other. "Blaine, Blaine, it's all right, I'm here. I'm here, Blaine. It's all right. It's all right."

"Jesus," Finn says -- Kurt looks up, startled, and sees him gaping in the doorway. "Is he -- Is it a seizure? Does he need the hospital? Shouldn't we -- You put things in their mouths, right? So they don't choke on their tongues? Because I've got my wallet in my pants, I could --"

"It's not a seizure," Mr. Anderson says, voice sharper than Kurt's ever heard it. "It's just a dream; it's just --" But Blaine's breathing is even shorter now, short and sharp and so _loud_ , and Mr. Anderson obviously knows something's wrong, because he tries to lift Blaine's rigid body away from the pillows, but Blaine's shoulders slip away from him as Blaine twists, lashing out one-handed. "Blaine, Blaine, come on, please --"

"Don't --" Blaine protests, the words just barely audible, faint puffs of air that escape between the unnerving _heep heep_ of his desperate struggles for breath. "Dad -- don't... _run_ , you have to --" Then his eyes actually open, wide and unfocused and so starkly terrified that Kurt actually pulls back for a second, startled beyond belief. "No," Blaine breathes. "No, no, _no_ \--" He arches away from his father, shoving at him with both hands, trying to push him away, eyes still wide open and unseeing. 

And all Kurt can do is stare, just stare for the longest time, as Blaine fights to get free of his father.

Then Mr. Anderson turns his head and _looks_ at him, all messy hair and rumpled pajamas and desperate eyes, and somehow, that's enough to get him diving back in, trying to pin Blaine's arms down even as Mr. Anderson pulls the rest of him up, murmuring "No, no, no no _no_ , Blaine, you're all right, I've got you, come on, come on, Blaine, _please_ \--" 

It's harder than Kurt would have thought; Blaine is strong, and he's desperate, and Kurt doesn't want to hurt him, but when Blaine's right hand catches him on the jaw for the second time in ten seconds, he realizes he might not have much of a choice. He catches Blaine's wrists one at a time, gripping them tightly, and forces them into the small of Blaine's back, pushing him up into a sitting position and sliding in behind him to keep him there until Mr. Anderson can wrap his arms securely around his son, Blaine trapped between the two of them.

And the entire time, Mr. Anderson just keeps talking. "You're all right, Blaine," he says, voice cracking a little, desperate now. "You're all right, I've got you, I've got you, come _on_ \--" He rubs at Blaine's back and rocks him, gently, and Blaine lets out one last, loud gasp, his body arching away from his father's and back into Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt drops his wrists immediately because Blaine is hurt, maybe even _dying_ , maybe even --

But then Blaine's hands find his father's waist, clutching tight at the striped fabric of his pajama top, and he sags forward again, breath still loud and raspy and far too fast, but starting to settle. "There," Mr. Anderson says, still rocking his son, every little backward movement making Blaine bump into Kurt's chest. "There, you're all right now. I've got you. You're all right."

Blaine shakes his head, still clinging to his father's shirt, still panting for breath. "You were gone," he sobs out. "You were gone, and Kurt -- _Kurt_ \--"

Kurt lets out a long, slow breath, sagging back against the headboard. Because that's _Blaine_ , that's the voice that Kurt knows, and he's back. He's back. "I'm right here," Kurt murmurs, reaching out to pat at Blaine's arm. "I'm right here, Blaine."

" _Kurt_." Blaine twists in his father's arms, lifting his head, and his face is still red and blotchy from lack of air, but it's better than it was, and his eyes are focused again, and he's back, he's _there_ , reaching out to cup Kurt's cheek in one hand, his other still clinging to his father's shirt. "Kurt, I'm so sorry, but you were -- You were gone for so long, and I was so _scared_ , and I didn't know, and he --" Blaine's face crumbles, his breath hitching again, and when Kurt wraps his arm around Blaine's waist, he can feel Blaine's stomach jumping with little, aborted sobs. "And he said you were -- but that I could save you, if I -- and I thought --" Blaine turns back to his father, drops his head down to his father's shoulder, and starts sobbing in earnest. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry."

And the thing is, Kurt knows that he should pull back and let Mr. Anderson hold his son, let him be the one to calm Blaine down, but then Blaine's hand finds Kurt's, their fingers twining together against Blaine's stomach and he gives in to it, molding himself to Blaine's back and holding on tightly. And after a moment, Mr. Anderson's arms stretch to hold them both, his hands on Kurt's shoulders, pressing the three of them together, and it's awkward, but Kurt doesn't even care.

"It's all right," Mr. Anderson says, quietly. "It's all right now."

And Kurt half expects Blaine to say something like "It's not," because that's what Blaine always does, but he doesn't; he just keeps sobbing into his father's shirt, his shoulders shaking underneath Kurt's chest, and Kurt presses as close as he can and hopes that he and Mr. Anderson can somehow hold Blaine together.

 

*

 

The apartment is dark, silent, empty. Abandoned.

Sayid slips in through the door, pushing it shut behind him, and nearly reaches for the lights before thinking better of it. He wouldn't want to attract the attention of her neighbors, or anyone else. His flashlight will suffice for the task at hand. He plays the beam over the furnishings in her living room -- the books on the table, just beginning to gather dust, the cushions on the sofa still carefully arranged. It almost looks as though Juliet will come home any second. 

She won't, of course. 

_"Ben Linus might not be able to parlay a few months into a good head start," she says. "But I bet you could, if you wanted to."_

Of course, Juliet wouldn't have made that suggestion unless she had reasons of her own for wanting Sayid gone. 

He follows his flashlight's beam into the kitchen. 

The bowl of fruit on the countertop is gone; the cupboards are still well-stocked with canned goods, a few sealed boxes of pasta and unopened bags of rice, but the breadbox is empty. The dishes are still neatly stacked on the shelves, silverware in the drawers, but the refrigerator is empty of all but a box of baking soda and three different varieties of mustard. As he closes the door, Sayid notices something else. There had been a picture, held there with a magnet; a picture of a woman with a scarf tied around her head, a small boy on her lap, feeding her ice cream.

It's gone.

He contemplates the bedroom, decides not to bother. He already knows what he needs to. Juliet has left them.

He wonders, briefly, if he should find some way to avoid telling Sun. But of course, he can't do that. Out of all of them, she has the most to lose by this. Her husband is still on the Island, and Juliet was their only link to his captors. If she cannot be reclaimed...

But. With his skills, and Sun's resources, they'll manage it.

He turns on his heel and makes his way out of the apartment, locking the door behind him.

 

*

 

Finn is quiet at breakfast, picking at his french toast and ignoring his orange juice entirely (the bacon, of course, he wolfs down at once); he doesn't really look at Blaine at all, although Kurt doubts that Blaine would notice, since he's avoiding eye contact with anyone. He just stares at his plate, cutting his breakfast into ever smaller pieces and pushing them around a little with his fork. Blaine's father watches him do it, but doesn't say anything about it; Kurt can't help but notice, though, that he keeps finding excuses to brush his fingers across the back of Blaine's hand, nudge him with his shoulder. He notices, too, the way that Blaine seems to soften every time, his shoulders relaxing a little from where they're hiked up to his ears, his eyes falling shut for just a second before they open again, still fixed on his plate. Then, and only then, does Blaine stab a bit of french toast with his fork and shove it into his mouth, his face screwing up like chewing is the most painful thing he can do.

Kurt watches him, and after a little while, he pushes himself away from the table, claiming to need more coffee. As he passes behind Blaine, he reaches out and trails his fingers along Blaine's shoulders and Blaine actually looks at him, his eyes a little wide.

Kurt takes his time fixing his coffee, and is gratified to see that by the time he's returned to his chair, Blaine has eaten at least three more bites of his french toast. He looks up at Kurt, hazel eyes huge underneath thick, dark lashes, and Kurt smiles at him. Blaine doesn't smile back, but he does take another bite of his breakfast. It's the smallest possible progress, but it's still progress.

He glances over at Blaine's father, sees him watching -- Mr. Anderson nods, and Kurt nods back at him. He's not totally sure what it means; he thinks, maybe, he's just been given permission for something, although he's not totally sure what it is yet.

In the end, no one really finishes their breakfast -- Blaine's father gives up trying entirely after about half an hour and pulls Blaine away to change the bandages on his injured leg. As soon as they're gone, Kurt picks up their plates and carries them over to the trash, scraping off the leftovers before setting the plates in the sink. He doesn't really think that either Blaine or his father want him doing the dishes; it's just that they're not there to stop him, and he has to do something before he goes crazy. Finn must feel the same way, because when Kurt turns to grab his own plate, Finn's already got it in hand. Kurt hesitates for a second, then shrugs and starts picking up discarded glasses and coffee mugs.

He washes. Finn dries. They don't talk for a long time.

Finally, Finn clears his throat. "What do you..." He looks at Kurt for a second, then goes back to very intently polishing one of the knives. "What do you think he saw? Blaine, I mean. Because he was having that dream and he seemed pretty freaked out and I just -- What do you think he saw?"

Kurt attempts a nonchalant shrug; he doesn't think he's that successful but it doesn't really matter, since Finn's still staring at the knife. "I don't know," he says, quietly, and tries not to think about it. 

_Dad, Dad, no, Dad, please --_

"But he said..." Finn glances over at him again, still polishing that same knife. "He said you were gone, Kurt."

"I know," Kurt says, and runs his sponge underneath the stream of water from the tap, and doesn't think of the way Blaine's voice cracked when he said Kurt's name, doesn't think of the way Blaine's hand shook when he reached out for him, doesn't think of the desperation in Blaine's grasp, the way he refused to let Kurt pull away even after he'd stopped crying. _He said I could save you._ "But I'm not going anywhere."

Finn's eyebrows draw together. "But Blaine said --"

"It was a dream, Finn," Kurt snaps, dropping his mug into the sink. "It was just -- It was just a dream."

Finn stares at him for a long time. "Okay," he says, finally. "Okay, Kurt. Okay."

"It was just a dream," Kurt repeats, and picks the mug back up, and scans the rim for chips and cracks. 

_I was so scared._

Once he's absolutely satisfied that the mug is intact, he passes it to Finn.

_I'm so sorry, Dad._

 

*

 

Artie's kind of getting used to the fact that his girlfriend can just scoop him up and carry him around like he's a baby. 

Which is not to say he likes it, necessarily, and he's pretty sure that if he was dating anyone but Brittany, it would genuinely be too humiliating to stomach. But he is dating Brittany, and dating Brittany is...

Dating Brittany is different. In a lot of ways. But he's getting used to them.

Some of them.

Not all of them. 

The basement of Brittany's house... That's not something he's going to get used to any time soon.

"I'm still not sure that this is a good idea," he says, as she comes back down the stairs carrying his wheelchair, Lord Tubbington slinking after her. Artie's honestly kind of a little shocked that the cat is still so attached to Brittany, after everything. Of course, cheese is an excellent way to buy loyalty. And also, it's entirely possible that Brittany's "time machine" isn't anything more than a purple lamp attached to an old amplifier, with some extra knobs and wires thrown in to make it look convincing. In fact, it's the _only_ possible thing he can possibly think about this whole situation; anything else would be absolutely _im_ possible. 

Except Artie's been dating Brittany for a while now, and if there's anything he's gotten used to, it's the impossible.

"Don't be silly," Brittany says, unfolding his chair and setting it out so he can transfer himself into it.. Sometimes, he thinks that's the reason why it's okay for her to carry him; she only does it when she has to, lets him do everything else. He appreciates that, that she doesn't treat him like he's completely helpless. "I mean, we already know it works one way, right?" She picks Lord Tubbington up and sniffs happily at his fur. "So, it'll work the other direction, too. We just need to reverse the frequency."

"Yeah, but." Artie watches Brittany pick Lord Tubbington up and set him on the table, underneath the lamp, and he tries to tell himself that it's okay, that it's just a lamp and Brittany's imagination, that it didn't work before and it won't work now. He tries to tell himself that he's just humoring her because she's been so good to him so far. He tries to tell himself that he has no real reason to be scared. "I mean, even if it does work. Like, doesn't that mean he'll -- you know, he'll start smoking again, won't he?"

Brittany just shrugs and moves over to the amplifier/control panel thing, glancing back at the chalkboard as if she's checking the math one last time. Which, honestly, is at least half the problem, because Artie knows he's smart but he's still only in pre-calc and high school level physics, and Brittany is... she's Brittany, and no matter what she's learned from that journal she keeps in her bedside table, there's no way the two of them, even put together, could ever actually make this work. Like, not ever. Not in a million years. "Well, then we'll re-reverse it," she says, fiddling with the knobs. "Send him back to the future. Like Michael J. Fox. And then we won't have to worry about him smoking anymore _and_ we'll still know how to travel into the past, and then all we have to do is rework the math so it's in human time instead of cat time, and it'll all be okay again. And everything will work out."

Artie wheels closer to the table -- Lord Tubbington gives him a disdainful look and then rolls away, presenting Artie with a good view of his back. "No offense, Brittany, but isn't that a lot of time travel for one cat?" He's not totally sure why, but he thinks he's starting to feel a little desperate. "I mean, I've read Dr. Faraday's journal too. And the mouse? Eloise? She _dies_ , Brittany. Her brain can't handle the temporal shifts, and she has an aneurysm, and she dies. How do you know that's not going to happen to Lord Tubbington? How do you know it's not going to --"

There's a moment where Brittany looks at him, eyes wide and lips pressed together, and Artie thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's starting to get through to her. But then she leans over the control panel and pulls a small catnip mouse from underneath a tangle of wires. Lord Tubbington perks up at once, eyes following the mouse with an almost scary level of interest. "Eloise," she says, "didn't have a constant." She wiggles the mouse, and Lord Tubbington sits up and watches it move, eyes wide and transfixed. "Lord Tubbington does. He'll be fine. I mean, apart from the smoking. But it's only for a few days. Which is like a month in cat time. I think. But we already accounted for that in the math, so."

"It's a _toy mouse_ , Brittany," Artie snaps, and his voice is getting a little high and he thinks maybe he's starting to become hysterical, like this is all starting to slip out of his control, but he doesn't totally know how to stop so he just keeps going. "What happens when it goes under the fridge and we can't find it? Or if your parents throw it out, or..." He shakes his head, trying to get himself back under control, but he can't. He just can't. "What if we don't know what we're doing?" he asks. "What if this is too big for us? Too much? What if it's... What if we shouldn't be trying to change what happened? What if... What if we do something and it makes it worse? There's just too many variables, Brittany. There's too many."

Brittany stares at him for a long time. Then she turns away from the controls and makes her way towards Artie, reaching out, and he'd almost think she was apologizing if it weren't for the look on her face. Because he knows that look -- he's not used to it, but he knows it. It's that look that says it doesn't matter. That she won't change her mind. So it's not really a surprise when she slides one arm around his back and the other behind his knees and lifts him out of the chair without saying a word. It _hurts_ , but it's not really a surprise. 

"Brit," he sighs, and doesn't try to shift out of her hold, even though he wants to. Because usually, when she carries him around like this, he doesn't feel helpless at all. But right now? Right now he does. And it's nothing to do with his legs; it's just... It's just her. "Brit, come on. Put me down."

"Why?" she asks, and doesn't look down at him even once. She doesn't start moving towards the stairs, though, either. "Look, you don't want to do this. That's okay. It's fine. You don't have to. I'll take you upstairs, and you can go, and then you won't have to do anything you don't want to."

"But you're still going to, Brittany," Artie says, trying to ignore the fact that he's fighting with his girlfriend with his arms wrapped around her neck and her arms holding him cradled against her, because as weird as it is, that's Brittany. "Aren't you? Even if I left right now, you'd still do it."

She shakes her head, and stares at the door. "I have to, Artie," she says, quietly. 

Artie sighs. "Look at me, Brittany."

She doesn't turn her head.

"Brittany," he says again. "Look at me. Please?" And when she finally does, he looks in her eyes and he asks her, "Do you want to do this, Brittany?"

Her eyes fill up with tears. "I -- I don't -- I have to, Artie," she says again. "I just... I know you don't understand, but Kurt and Santana and Blaine and Mr. A, and I just... I have to. Because I'm the only one who can."

Artie takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says. Then, "Put me down, Brit."

"You don't wanna do this," she says, like he needs the reminding.

"You don't either," he points out. "And if you're not leaving, then neither am I. We'll do this together, just like before."

Brittany sniffles and hugs him a little closer to her chest for a second. "You're the best boyfriend ever, Artie," she says, squeezing him. "I'm glad you're not a robot."

"I'm glad I'm not a robot, too," he says, as Brittany settles him back in his chair; he doesn't acknowledge the part where she called him the best boyfriend ever, because he knows that that isn't really true. Because if he was such a good boyfriend, he'd have found some way of talking Brittany out of this. He wouldn't be letting her push him towards the control panels of her homemade time machine; he wouldn't be watching her set the oscillation frequency and adjust the settings to the right number. If he was a good boyfriend, he'd find some way of stopping her.

But then, maybe he wouldn't be able to. Maybe no one can stop Brittany, in the end.

"Okay," she says, her hand settling on the switch. "Lord Tubbington, I'm gonna need you to hold really still for me, okay?"

The cat yawns, then curls up obediently underneath the lamp and falls asleep.

Brittany glances over at Artie. "You ready?" she asks.

And he isn't, not really, but there's nothing else he can do. Brittany's mind is made up, and he's helpless to change it now. So he reaches out for Brittany's free hand, and holds onto it as tightly as he can. 

"Okay," Brittany says again. "Okay. Let's do this."

She flips the switch.

 

*

 

"That was pretty good," Blaine says, as Kurt leans against the wall next to him. Blaine hasn't shot yet (Kurt's not actually sure he's going to be shooting at all today, with his leg and everything), but he's still fully decked out with the giant orange earmuffs and yellow-tinted safety glasses. It makes him look strangely young. " _You_ were good, I mean. You're a pretty good shot."

Kurt just shrugs. "It's a little different from my dad's old twelve gauge," he says, watching Mr. Anderson guiding Finn's hands to wrap around the grip, thumbs lining up just so. It's funny -- Finn was so excited to go to the firing range before last night; he wouldn't shut up about it all week. Except now that they're here, he's tense, twitchy, jittery. Kurt wonders if it's just the fact that he's here and actually holding a real gun, hearing the real sound of it, or if it's just... 

He glances over at Blaine. Blaine's eyes are still fixed on his father, watching him adjust Finn's stance with steady, careful hands. 

"But I guess," Kurt continues, and he's not entirely sure whether he's still talking about guns or not, but it feels like it's important to keep going anyway, so he just does, "I guess it's not that different. In the end."

The corner of Blaine's mouth turns up into the smallest, saddest smile Kurt's ever seen. "I remember, after we left Tustin," he says, "when we moved to Portland, I begged my dad to teach me how to shoot. Because I just... when they came for us, I felt so helpless, and I thought... But he always said 'When you're older.' He thought I was too young. And honestly, I probably was. But I just didn't... I felt so responsible for him." Blaine sighs. "And then after what happened in Portland, and I kind of really did have to take care of him, so."

"Can I ask," Kurt says, watching Blaine watch his father. Blaine flinches, just a little bit, the first time Finn fires the gun, but then his shoulders settle back against the wall, and his chin goes up. Kurt wonders, absently, how Finn's doing, but can't tear his eyes away from Blaine long enough to check. "What happened in Portland, Blaine?"

There's another burst of gunfire from Finn's lane; then it's over, and there's a pause, before finally Kurt hears Mr. Anderson say, "That's... That's better, Finn. But here, why don't we try --"

Blaine closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes again. He's still looking at his father. "You know how, in the movies, when someone gets shot in the shoulder, they sort of just... You know, they grab it, and they stumble around for a little bit, and then they're okay again, more or less. It's not... In real life, it's not like that. Because there's all sorts of bones and joints and just... It's not just a clean shot, through-and-through. Things get broken, things get torn; it... it takes a while to heal. So even if he didn't want me doing things for him, taking care of him that way..." Blaine shrugs. "I think that was when it really hit him that he couldn't always be the one to take care of everything. That I might have to take care of myself sometimes, or might even wind up taking care of him. Which obviously was not something he was happy about -- I was pretty young and everything, but... My dad's always been practical like that. He does what he has to. So."

Kurt can't think of anything to say. He reaches out instead, tangles his fingers with Blaine's, and Blaine squeezes his hand gratefully.

A few feet away, Finn fires twice, and then twice more. There's a pause, and then Mr. Anderson's voice, gentle as always. "Better," he says, quietly. "That was better, Finn."

"It's funny," Blaine says, quietly, eyes still locked on his father. "He still doesn't really... Because it's so important to him that he's there to protect me. So he thinks that's what I'm scared of -- that if he's gone, if I'm alone, that I'll be scared because he's not there to protect me. But that's not what it is. It's what happens to him if I'm not there to look after him. That's what scares me the most."

Kurt studies Blaine's face for a few seconds, thinks about asking -- 

But he already knows the answer. 

_You were gone._

"I could help," he offers, tightening his fingers around Blaine's. "If I'm there, and you're not, or... or whatever happens. I could help keep an eye on him. So you wouldn't have to worry as much. I _am_ a pretty good shot, after all. I could help take care of him, if you needed me to."

Blaine finally tears his eyes away from his father, turns to look up at Kurt, his lips pursed in something like a frown. "Kurt," he says. "I --" Then he shakes his head and laughs quietly, and Kurt has no idea what the joke is, so he just watches and waits. "I'm sorry." Blaine sighs, his shoulders slumping. "I get so mad when he does this to me, and then I just --" His eyes meet Kurt's again, and the almost painfully boyish sincerity is back in his expression. "Yes," he says. "Yes, you can help. In fact, I would be incredibly grateful, if you would do that for me."

Kurt smiles back at him, leans in a little bit to nudge Blaine's shoulder with his own. "And you can help me look after my family," he says. "We could help each other. If you wanted to."

"I do," Blaine says, still so earnest. "I do, Kurt."

"Good," Kurt says, and smiles at him a little longer, and then finally turns his attention back to the range. 

 

*

 

And it's weird how suddenly even her abuelita's kitchen, which is arguably the safest place in the world, doesn't quite feel safe anymore. It's always been the one place she could go, no matter what else was happening, and just be... protected. And nothing about it has changed -- it's still got the same sheer white curtains, the same weird old-lady wallpaper, the same pictures on the refrigerator and the same pot of red beans and rice on the stove; it's just...

_And maybe I shouldn't be talking to you about this, Santana,_ she'd said, sliding the manila envelope out of her purse and onto the pristine surface of Abuelita's kitchen table, _but you deserve to know the truth. And if you don't want to, then... throw it away. You don't have to read any of it. But I wanted to at least give you the option. Because no one else will._

And honestly, most days Santana would have torn that envelope open right then and there, because she is a nosy bitch who likes getting up in other people's business, and after all, gossip is power. But she's just... She's just tired. Tired of the looks, tired of the questions, tired of being expected to give a fuck about any of this when as far as she's concerned, her part in the whole stupid drama began and ended in the home ec room, when Jennifer Karofsky's sainted frickin' son decided he hated the gays so much he was gonna shoot all of them up. 

And maybe there's something in here that'll change things; maybe there's something that will make her feel sorry for Karofsky. But she just doesn't even want to. She wants to hate him. Hell, if she could, she'd hate the Anderbaby and Hummel too. But Anderson's all short and big-eyed and on crutches and everything, and Hummel's just... he's _Hummel_. And Santana's a stone-cold bitch, but she just can't hate them. She can't manage it. 

That leaves her with Karofsky. And luckily for her, Karofsky is nothing if not hatable. She wants to hold on to that. She _needs_ to. It's all she's got.

She runs her fingers over the surface of the envelope anyway, then snatches them back when she hears the front door slam. She can hear her abuela muttering in Spanish as she makes her way back into the kitchen, her eyebrows pulled tight together; her face only softens when she sees Santana still in the vinyl-backed chair, watching with her hands folded in her lap. "I am sorry, Santana," she says, quietly. "I should never have let that woman into my house. I should have known no good would come of it."

"It's okay," Santana says, and manages a small smile. Her abuela doesn't smile back at her. "Hey," she adds, reaching out. "Abuelita. It's not your fault. Besides, we're supposed to forgive, right? Like Jesus on the cross."

"That woman didn't want forgiveness," Abuela says, darkly, glaring back in the direction of the door. "She took her shame and she tried to give it to you. I won't allow it. Here, let me --" She reaches out for the manila envelope on the table; before she even knows what she's doing, Santana's laid her hand over her abuela's wrist, stopping her.

"No," she says, too quickly, and when Abuela looks at her -- a little surprised, a little angry, too -- she adds, "Just... If Mrs. Karofsky thinks this is so important, then maybe we should... You know. Let the cops handle it. If it's nothing, then they can just get rid of it, and if it's something, then... Then that's good. Right?"

Her abuela's eyebrows draw together again, and Santana wonders just who she really thinks she's fooling here. But then she smiles, and slides her hand out from underneath Santana's. "Of course," she says. "You do what you need to do, Santana."

Santana smiles back at her. "I always do, Abuelita," she says, and lets her hand close around the edge of the envelope.

And okay, maybe the truth is that she doesn't even know what she needs to do, not right now. Whatever it is, she's pretty sure it's not running to the cops with the envelope. But she's got a little time, anyway. She can figure it out.

Maybe, just maybe, what's in the envelope can help her with that. 

There's only one way to be sure.

 

*

 

Blaine doesn't toss or turn, but there's something in the way he's breathing, something that Kurt just knows means he's lying there, awake. And he knows he's probably being forward and being pushy and being all those things that everyone's always accused him of being, but he can't just...

He can't.

He rolls out from underneath the covers, pushes up to his feet, and takes two steps over to the side of the bed. Blaine's in the middle, but it's a big bed -- Kurt could lie right down next to him and they wouldn't even be touching. But he doesn't go that far, not yet; instead he perches on the edge, one hand reaching out to touch Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine?" he asks, softly.

"Kurt," Blaine whispers; he stays flat on his back with his hands folded over his stomach, but he turns his head, glancing over at Kurt with wide, apologetic eyes. "I'm sorry. Was I -- I was trying not to be too loud, but I guess I just --"

"You weren't," Kurt said. "Being loud, I mean. I just..." And it's something in Blaine's eyes, the anxiousness and the care in them, and Kurt caves in, pulling his legs up onto the bed and rolling onto his side so he's facing Blaine. He reaches out again, just touching Blaine's shoulder like he did before. "Is this okay?"

Blaine tips his head to the other side, so Kurt can't see anything but the thick, messy curls that Blaine's usually at such pains to hide. "You don't have to," Blaine murmurs, his voice small and uncertain enough to make Kurt slide his hand down, wrap it around Blaine's arm just above the elbow.

"I know," Kurt says, trying to sound as encouraging as he possibly can. "But if I wanted to, Blaine -- and I do want to, but only if -- Is it okay if I sleep here? With you?"

"Kurt," Blaine says again, his voice thick with... something; there's too many emotions tangled up in the way Blaine says his name -- Kurt can't even guess at half of them. Then Blaine sighs. "Get under the blankets, dummy. You'll freeze."

It comes out a little rougher than Blaine meant it to, but Kurt's inclined to be understanding and forgiving after everything, at least with Blaine, so he obediently slides off the bed, lifts the covers, and comes back in properly. He doesn't cuddle in the way he might want to, just takes hold of Blaine's arm again, but he still feels better for having done it. And it's hard to tell what Blaine's thinking, exactly -- he takes one deep, rough breath after another, like he's just barely keeping hold of himself. But then he reaches up with his free arm and rests his hand over Kurt's, so Kurt's pretty sure that he isn't going anywhere.

Blaine rolls his head back until he's staring up at the ceiling. "It doesn't usually come back," he says, and Kurt has no idea what he's talking about, so he just holds Blaine's arm and waits for the rest of it. "Just... once, and then they come for us, and we move on, and then it's gone again. Until the next time they find us. But it's only ever once. It doesn't come back after that."

"You mean your dream, right?" Kurt asks, and he's not totally sure he wants to talk about this yet, because he hasn't totally figured out what to think about any of it. He trusts Blaine, would trust him with anything at all, but -- He's still himself, and psychic powers and dreams of the future are just... They're a little hard to swallow. "That's what you mean."

"Yeah," Blaine whispers. "So it shouldn't... I should be fine, tonight. I should be..." Kurt watches Blaine's adam's apple bob as he swallows nervously. "But this one was different," he adds. "So I guess I don't really know what it'll do."

Kurt curls in a little closer, his foot bumping up against Blaine's. "Can I ask a question?" Blaine keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling, doesn't look at Kurt, but he nods. "How was it different, Blaine?"

Blaine closes his eyes, dark lashes heavy on his cheeks. "It was _worse_."

And Kurt knows he should probably say something, but he can't think of the words for it; all he really knows is that it doesn't matter so much whether there's a logical explanation for all of this or whether Blaine can actually see the future. It doesn't matter if it's rational, if it makes sense. What matters is that Blaine is _scared_ , and Kurt can't stand it.

He slides in a little closer, drapes his arm over Blaine's waist -- Blaine's hand stays on top of his the entire time, not letting go. "This is going to sound stupid," he says, quietly. "But there's this song. My mom used to sing it to me, when I was little. And then, when she -- My dad took over. It's the only time I've ever heard him sing. But if you wanted, I could --"

Blaine's hand tightens around his. "Please?" he asks, and Kurt could almost cry at the longing in his voice.

But he can't. He's got a request, now. So he shifts a little higher on the pillows, careful not to let go of Blaine for even a second, and once he's got himself settled, he starts singing, as softly as he can. 

_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket --_  
Never let it fade away.  
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket --  
Save it for a rainy day. 

Blaine smiles, just a little bit. "Oh," he murmurs, and Kurt stops singing for a moment, watching him. "So that's where my dad learned it."

Kurt pats at his side, then goes back to singing.

_For love may come a-tapping on your shoulder  
Some starless night..._

 

*

 

_Tozeur, Tunisia_

 

Ethan isn't exactly thrilled by the prospect of having to re-acclimate himself to the outside world. 

The truth is, he's never really wanted to leave the Island. Not for school (although he did, when he was told to), not to bring in new recruits, not for any reason at all. He's done what he has to, when he's had to do it, but he belongs on the Island; he belongs _to_ the Island. He's known that from the start. And he wouldn't have left the Island this time if he hadn't known, deep in the core of him, that it was the only way he could save it. Not the people on it; he doesn't really care so much about them, but the Island itself -- 

The Island is what matters. The Island is the only thing that matters.

And so here he is.

It isn't all bad, of course. The bathroom of his suite is well-stocked with thick, soft towels and bottles of product that he couldn't even begin to identify, the shower is large and there's more than enough hot water to last him, and there's something enjoyably decadent about coming out clean and scrubbed and wrapped in a plush bathrobe to find a meal and a stack of newspapers waiting for him. It isn't something he'd ever allow himself to get used to, of course, but the indulgence is... appealing. He might even let himself think for a moment that he deserves it, after everything. Something like a vacation.

It is not, of course, a vacation. It's banishment. After all, the rules are very clear. Ethan turned the Wheel. He moved the Island. He can never return. The rules are _very_ clear. 

Still, there are nearly always loopholes, for those who know how to look.

Ethan carries the room service tray over to the bed, and settles in. The front desk clerk really outdid herself with the newspaper selection -- there's _La Presse_ , of course, and _The Guardian_ , but there's also _USA Today_ , the _Toledo Blade_ , the _Columbus Dispatch_ , and most impressive of all, the _Lima News_. He pulls this last newspaper out from the bottom of the stack, unfolds it, scanning the front page with eager eyes. It isn't even that old; he was expecting something from a month ago, or perhaps a year, but no, this is from last week. This could be exactly what he needs.

And as he skims the text of the main article (the headline proclaiming: _Accusations Fly after McKinley School Shooting_ ), he realizes that it is. 

Ethan's never really concerned himself much with these sorts of things: most children are small sociopaths; it never surprises him when they lash out. But as he skims the article, he sees the name _Karofsky_ , over and over again. Not Paul Karofsky, of course; Ethan had never really expected Dr. Arzt to get his hands dirty. But his son, David -- there's someone made of slightly sterner stuff. Ethan can appreciate that. 

Not quite as much as he appreciates the small picture in the lower left hand corner, with the caption reading: _Teacher Tried to Reach Out to Troubled Student, Became a Target Instead._

Poor old predictable Benjamin. Dangle a child in front of him, and he'll do anything. Honestly, if Charles had only thought to do so years ago, so much could have been avoided. But. His loss, Ethan's gain.

After all these years, Jacob still wants Ben and his son. Ethan has no idea why -- they don't care about the Island; they'd never sacrifice themselves the way he has, they'd never do the things he's done, suffer the things he -- But it doesn't matter if Ethan understands, and it never has. The Island belongs to Jacob, and Jacob wants _them_. If they're with Ethan, if he's the one to bring them back to the Island, Jacob will let him return. He'll have to. 

He just needs Benjamin and his son. And, as it happens, he's already got a team ready to help him acquire them. 

Ethan reaches out to the tray, grabs a handful of dates, and flips the newspaper to the sports section. In the morning, he'll contact L.A., make arrangements for his trip to Ohio, get in touch with Juliet. He will set the plan into motion. But for now, just for now, it's enough to know that he has one. 

He has a plan, and he'll be home soon. And that's all that matters.


End file.
